LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON    -    CHICAGO 
SAN    FKANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


POEMS 


BY 

MADISON    CAWEIN 

(SELECTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR) 

WITH 
A   FOREWORD    BY  WILLIAM    DEAN    HOWELLS 


gorft 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1911 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1911. 


NortooolJ  -(Press 

J.  S.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

THE  verses  composing  this  volume  have  been  selected 
by  the  author  almost  entirely  from  the  five-volume 
edition  of  his  poems  published  by  the  Bobbs-Merrill 
Company  in  1907.  A  number  have  been  included  from 
the  three  or  four  volumes  which  have  been  published 
since  the  appearance  of  the  Collected  Poems ;  namely, 
three  poems  from  the  volume  entitled  "  Nature  Notes 
and  Impressions,"  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York ;  one 
poem  from  "The  Giant  and  the  Star,"  Small,  Maynard 
&  Co.,  Boston;  Section  VII  and  part  of  Section  VIII 
of  "An  Ode"  written  in  commemoration  of  the  found 
ing  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  Colony,  and  published 
by  John  P.  Morton  &  Co.,  Louisville,  Ky. ;  some  five 
or  six  poems  from  "New  Poems,"  published  in  London 
by  Mr.  Grant  Richards  in  1909 ;  and  three  or  four  selec 
tions  from  the  volume  of  selections  entitled  "Kentucky 
Poems,"  compiled  by  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  and  published 
in  London  by  Mr.  Grant  Richards  in  1902.  Acknowl 
edgment  and  thanks  for  permission  to  reprint  the 
various  poems  included  in  this  volume  are  herewith 
made  to  the  different  publishers. 


22396 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

The  two  poems,  "In  Arcady"  and  "The  Black 
Knight"  are  new  and  are  published  here  for  the  first 
time. 

In  making  the  selections  for  the  present  book  Mr. 
Cawein  has  endeavored  to  cover  the  entire  field  of  his 
poetical  labors,  which  extends  over  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury.  With  the  exception  of  his  dramatic  work,  as 
witnessed  by  one  volume  only,  "The  Shadow  Garden," 
a  book  of  plays  four  in  number,  published  in  1910,  the 
selection  herewith  presented  by  us  is,  in  our  opinion, 
representative  of  the  author's  poetical  work. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Poetry  of  Madison  Cawein xiii 

Hyrnn  to  Spiritual  Desire I 

Beautiful-Bosomed,  O  Night 4 

Discovery 7 

O  Maytime  Woods 8 

The  Redbird 10 

A  Niello 12 

In  May 16 

Aubade 18 

Apocalypse 20 

Penetralia 21 

Elusion .         .         -23 

Womanhood  ..........  26 

The  Idyll  of  the  Standing-Stone 27 

Noe'ra 29 

The  Old  Spring 32 

A  Dreamer  of  Dreams 34 

Deep  in  the  Forest 

I.     Spring  on  the  Hills 37 

II.     Moss  and  Fern  ........  38 

III.  The  Thorn  Tree 40 

IV.  The  Hamadryad 42 

Preludes 44 

May 46 

What  Little  Things 47 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Beeches 48 

Unrequited      ..........  50 

The  Solitary 51 

A  Twilight  Moth 52 

The  Old  Farm 54 

The  Whippoorwill 58 

Revealment 60 

Hepaticas 61 

The  Wind  of  Spring 63 

The  Catbird 64 

A  Woodland  Grave          ........  66 

Sunset  Dreams 68 

The  Old  Byway 70 

"  Below  the  Sunset's  Range  of  Rose  " 72 

Music  of  Summer 74 

Midsummer 77 

The  Rain-Crow        .........  So 

Field  and  Forest  Call 82 

Old  Homes 84 

The  Forest  Way 86 

Sunset  and  Storm 88 

Quiet  Lanes 89 

One  who  loved  Nature 93 

Garden  Gossip 97 

Assumption 99 

Senorita 100 

Overseas 102 

Problems 105 

To  a  Windflower 106 

Voyagers 108 

The  Spell 1 10 

Uncertainty 113 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

In  the  Wood 116 

Since  Then      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .118 

Dusk  in  the  Woods 119 

Paths .         .         .121 

The  Quest 123 

The  Garden  of  Dreams 125 

The  Path  to  Faery 127 

There  are  Faeries 130 

The  Spirit  of  the  Forest  Spring 133 

In  a  Garden 135 

In  the  Lane 137 

The  Window  on  the  Hill 139 

The  Picture 140 

Moly 141 

Poppy  and  Mandragora 144 

A  Road  Song 147 

Phantoms 148 

Intimations  of  the  Beautiful 150 

October 165 

Friends 167 

Comradery 169 

Bare  Boughs 171 

Days  and  Days 173 

Autumn  Sorrow 174 

The  Tree-Toad 175 

The  Chipmunk .         .  177 

The  Wild  Iris 1 79 

Drouth 181 

Rain 183 

At  Sunset 184 

The  Leaf-Cricket 185 

The  Wind  of  Winter                                 .                                   .  188 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Owlet 190 

Evening  on  the  Farm 193 

The  Locust 197 

The  Dead  Day 199 

The  Old  Water-Mill 200 

Argonauts 206 

"  The  Morn  that  breaks  its  Heart  of  Gold  "    .         .         .         .  208 

A  Voice  on  the  Wind 212 

Requiem 215 

Lynchers          .         .         .         .         .         •         •         •         •         .217 

The  Parting 219 

Feud 221 

KuKlux 223 

Eidolons 225 

The  Man  Hunt 227 

My  Romance 229 

A  Maid  who  died  Old 231 

Ballad  of  Low-Lie-Down 233 

Romance          .......•••  235 

Amaclis  and  Oriana 238 

The  Rosicrucian 240 

The  Age  of  Gold 243 

Beauty  and  Art 244 

The  Sea  Spirit 246 

Gargaphie       ......••••  248 

The  Dead  Oread 251 

The  Faun 253 

The  Paphian  Venus 255 

Oriental  Romance 259 

The  Mameluke 261 

The  Slave 263 

The  Portrait    .                           265 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

The  Black  Knight 269 

In  Arcady 278 

Prototypes 282 

March 283 

Dusk 284 

The  Winds 285 

Light  and  Wind 286 

Enchantment 287 

Abandoned 288 

After  Long  Grief 289 

Mendicants 290 

The  End  of  Summer 29 1 

November 292 

The  Death  of  Love 294 

Unanswered 295 

The  Swashbuckler 296 

Old  Sir  John 297 

Uncalled 298 


THE  POETRY  OF  MADISON  CAWEIN 

WHEN  a  poet  begins  writing,  and  we  begin  liking  his 
work,  we  own  willingly  enough  that  we  have  not,  and 
cannot  have,  got  the  compass  of  his  talent.  We  must 
wait  till  he  has  written  more,  and  we  have  learned  to 
like  him  more,  and  even  then  we  should  hesitate  his 
definition,  from  all  that  he  has  done,  if  we  did  not  very 
commonly  qualify  ourselves  from  the  latest  thing  he  has 
done.  Between  the  earliest  thing  and  the  latest  thing 
there  may  have  been  a  hundred  different  things,  and 
in  his  swan-long  life  of  a  singer  there  would  probably  be 
a  hundred  yet,  and  all  different.  But  we  take  the  latest 
as  if  it  summed  him  up  in  motive  and  range  and  tend 
ency.  Many  parts  of  his  work  offer  themselves  in 
confirmation  of  our  judgment,  while  those  which  might 
impeach  it  shrink  away  and  hide  themselves,  and  leave 
us  to  our  precipitation,  our  catastrophe. 

It  was  surely  nothing  less  than  by  a  catastrophe  that 
I  should  have  been  so  betrayed  in  the  volumes  of 
Mr.  Cawein's  verse  which  reached  me  last  before  the 
volume  of  his  collected  poems.  ...  I  had  read  his 
poetry  and  loved  it  from  the  beginning,  and  in  each 

xiii 


xiv     THE   POETRY  OF  MADISON    CAWEIN 

successive  expression  of  it,  I  had  delighted  in  its  expand 
ing  and  maturing  beauty.  I  believe  I  had  not  failed 
to  own  its  compass,  and  when  — 

"  He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills," 

I  had  responded  to  every  note  of  the  changing  music.  I 
did  not  always  respond  audibly  either  in  public  or  in 
private,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  so  old  a  friend  might 
fairly  rest  on  the  laurels  he  had  helped  bestow.  But 
when  that  last  volume  came,  I  said  to  myself,  "This 
applausive  silence  has  gone  on  long  enough.  It  is  time 
to  break  it  with  open  appreciation.  Still,"  I  said,  "I 
must  guard  against  too  great  appreciation ;  I  must  mix 
in  a  little  depreciation,  to  show  that  I  have  read  atten 
tively,  critically,  authoritatively."  So  I  applied  myself 
to  the  cheapest  and  easiest  means  of  depreciation,  and 
asked,  "Why  do  you  always  write  Nature  poems? 
Why  not  Human  Nature  poems?"  or  the  like.  But  in 
seizing  upon  an  objection  so  obvious  that  I  ought  to 
have  known  it  was  superficial,  I  had  wronged  a  poet, 
who  had  never  done  me  harm,  but  only  good,  in  the 
very  terms  and  conditions  of  his  being  a  poet.  I  had 
not  stayed  to  see  that  his  nature  poetry  was  instinct 
with  human  poetry,  with  his  human  poetry,  with  mine, 
with  yours.  I  had  made  his  reproach  what  ought  to 
have  been  his  finest  praise,  what  is  always  the  praise  of 


THE   POETRY  OF   MADISON   CAWEIN     xv 

poetry  when  it  is  not  artificial  and  formal.  I  ought  to 
have  said,  as  I  had  seen,  that  not  one  of  his  lovely  land 
scapes  in  which  I  could  discover  no  human  figure,  but 
thrilled  with  a  human  presence  penetrating  to  it  from 
his  most  sensitive  and  subtle  spirit  until  it  was  all  but 
painfully  alive  with  memories,  with  regrets,  with  long 
ings,  with  hopes,  with  all  that  from  time  to  time  mutably 
constitutes  us  men  and  women,  and  yet  keeps  us  chil 
dren.  He  has  the  gift,  in  a  measure  that  I  do  not  think 
surpassed  in  any  poet,  of  touching  some  smallest  or 
commonest  thing  in  nature,  and  making  it  live  from  the 
manifold  associations  in  which  we  have  our  being,  and 
glow  thereafter  with  an  inextinguishable  beauty.  His 
felicities  do  not  seem  sought ;  rather  they  seem  to  seek 
him,  and  to  surprise  him  with  the  delight  they  impart 
through  him.  He  has  the  inspiration  of  the  right 
word,  and  the  courage  of  it,  so  that  though  in  the  first 
instant  you  may  be  challenged,  you  may  be  revolted, 
by  something  that  you  might  have  thought  uncouth, 
you  are  presently  overcome  by  the  happy  bravery  of  it, 
and  gladly  recognize  that  no  other  word  of  those  verbal 
saints  or  aristocrats,  dedicated  to  the  worship  or  service 
of  beauty,  would  at  all  so  well  have  conveyed  the  sense 
of  it  as  this  or  that  plebeian. 

If  I  began  indulging  myself  in  the  pleasure  of  quota 
tion,  or  the  delight  of  giving  proofs  of  what  I  say,  I 
should  soon  and  far  transcend  the  modest  bounds  which 


xvi    THE  POETRY  OF   MADISON   CAWEIN 

the  editor  has  set  my  paper.  But  the  reader  may  take 
it  from  me  that  no  other  poet,  not  even  of  the  great 
Elizabethan  range,  can  outword  this  poet  when  it  comes 
to  choosing  some  epithet  fresh  from  the  earth  or  air, 
and  with  the  morning  sun  or  light  upon  it,  for  an  emotion 
or  experience  in  which  the  race  renews  its  youth  from 
generation  to  generation.  He  is  of  the  kind  of  Keats 
and  Shelley  and  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  in  that 
truth  to  observance  and  experience  of  nature  and  the 
joyous  expression  of  it,  which  are  the  dominant  charac 
teristics  of  his  art.  It  is  imaginable  that  the  thinness  of 
the  social  life  in  the  Middle  West  threw  the  poet  upon 
the  communion  with  the  fields  and  woods,  the  days  and 
nights,  the  changing  seasons,  in  which  another  great 
nature  poet  of  ours  declares  they  "speak  in  various 
language."  But  nothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
didactic  mood  in  which  "communion  with  the  various 
forms"  of  nature  casts  the  Puritanic  soul  of  Bryant, 
than  the  mood  in  which  this  German-blooded,  Ken 
tucky-born  poet,  who  keeps  throughout  his  song  the 
sense  of  a  perpetual  and  inalienable  youth,  with  a  spirit 
as  pagan  as  that  which  breathes  from  Greek  sculpture  — 
but  happily  not  more  pagan.  Most  modern  poets  who 
are  antique  are  rather  over-Hellenic,  in  their  wish  not 
to  be  English  or  French,  but  there  is  nothing  voluntary 
in  Mr.  Cawein's  naturalization  in  the  older  world  of 
myth  and  fable ;  he  is  too  sincerely  and  solely  a  poet  to 


THE   POETRY  OF  MADISON   CAWEIN    xvii 

be  a  posseur  ;  he  has  his  eyes  everywhere  except  on  the 
spectator,  and  his  affair  is  to  report  the  beauty  that  he 
sees,  as  if  there  were  no  one  by  to  hear. 

An  interesting  and  charming  trait  of  his  poetry  is  its 
constant  theme  of  youth  and  its  limit  within  the  range 
that  the  emotions  and  aspirations  of  youth  take.  He 
might  indeed  be  called  the  poet  of  youth  if  he  resented 
being  called  the  poet  of  nature ;  but  the  poet  of  youth, 
be  it  understood,  of  vague  regrets,  of  "tears,  idle  tears," 
of  "long,  long  thoughts,"  for  that  is  the  real  youth,  and 
not  the  youth  of  the  supposed  hilarity,  the  attributive 
recklessness,  the  daring  hopes.  Perhaps  there  is  some 
such  youth  as  this,  but  it  has  not  its  home  in  the  breast 
of  any  young  poet,  and  he  rarely  utters  it ;  at  best  he 
is  of  a  light  melancholy,  a  smiling  wistfulness,  and  upon 
the  whole,  October  is  more  to  his  mind  than  May. 

In  Mr.  Cawein's  work,  therefore,  what  is  not  the 
expression  of  the  world  we  vainly  and  rashly  call  the 
inanimate  world,  is  the  hardly  more  dramatized,  and 
not  more  enchantingly  imagined  story  of  lovers,  rather 
unhappy  lovers.  He  finds  his  own  in  this  sort  far  and 
near ;  in  classic  Greece,  in  heroic  England,  in  romantic 
Germany,  where  the  blue  flower  blows,  but  not  less  in 
beautiful  and  familiar  Kentucky,  where  the  blue  grass 
shows  itself  equally  the  emblem  of  poetry,  and  the 
moldering  log  in  the  cabin  wall  or  the  woodland  path 
is  of  the  same  poetic  value  as  the  marble  of  the  ruined 


xviii    THE   POETRY  OF   MADISON   CAWEIN 

temple  or  the  stone  of  the  crumbling  castle.  His 
singularly  creative  fancy  breathes  a  soul  into  every  scene ; 
his  touch  leaves  everything  that  was  dull  to  the  sense 
before  glowing  in  the  light  of  joyful  recognition.  He 
classifies  his  poems  by  different  names,  and  they  are  of 
different  themes,  but  they  are  after  all  of  that  unity 
which  I  have  been  trying,  all  too  shirkingly,  to  suggest. 
One,  for  instance,  is  the  pathetic  story  which  tells 
itself  in  the  lyrical  eclogue  "One  Day  and  Another." 
It  is  the  conversation,  prolonged  from  meeting  to  meet 
ing,  between  two  lovers  whom  death  parts;  but  who 
recurrently  find  themselves  and  each  other  in  the  gar 
dens  and  the  woods,  and  on  the  waters  which  they  tell 
each  other  of  and  together  delight  in.  The  effect  is 
that  which  is  truest  to  youth  and  love,  for  these  trans 
mutations  of  emotion  form  the  disguise  of  self  which 
makes  passion  tolerable;  but  mechanically  the  result 
is  a  series  of  nature  poems.  More  genuinely  dramatic 
are  such  pieces  as  "The  Feud,"  "Ku  Klux,"  and  "The 
Lynchers,"  three  out  of  many;  but  one  which  I  value 
more  because  it  is  worthy  of  Wordsworth,  or  of  Tenny 
son  in  a  Wordsworthian  mood,  is  "The  Old  Mill," 
where,  with  all  the  wonted  charm  of  his  landscape 
art,  Mr.  Cawein  gives  us  a  strongly  local  and  novel  piece 
of  character  painting. 

I  deny  myself  with  increasing  reluctance  the  pleasure 
of  quoting  the  stanzas,  the  verses,  the  phrases,  the 


THE   POETRY  OF   MADISON   CAWEIN    xix 

epithets,  which  lure  me  by  scores  and  hundreds  in  his 
poems.  It  must  suffice  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  know 
any  poem  of  his  which  has  not  some  such  a  felicity ;  I 
do  not  know  any  poem  of  his  which  is  not  worth  reading, 
at  least  the  first  time,  and  often  the  second  and  the  third 
time,  and  so  on  as  often  as  you  have  the  chance  of  re 
curring  to  it.  Some  disappoint  and  others  delight  more 
than  others;  but  there  is  none  but  in  greater  or  less 
measure  has  the  witchery  native  to  the  poet,  and  his 
place  and  his  period. 

It  is  only  in  order  of  his  later  time  that  I  would  put 
Mr.  Cawein  first  among  those  Midwestern  poets,  of 
whom  he  is  the  youngest.  Poetry  in  the  Middle  West 
has  had  its  development  in  which  it  was  eclipsed  by  the 
splendor,  transitory  if  not  vain,  of  the  California  school. 
But  it  is  deeply  rooted  in  the  life  of  the  region,  and  is  as 
true  to  its  origins  as  any  faithful  portraiture  of  the 
Midwestern  landscape  could  be ;  you  could  not  mistake 
the  source  of  the  poem  or  the  picture.  In  a  certain 
tenderness  of  light  and  coloring,  the  poems  would  recall 
the  mellowed  masterpieces  of  the  older  literatures  rather 
than  those  of  the  New  England  school,  where  conscience 
dwells  almost  rebukingly  with  beauty.  .  .  . 

W.  D.  Ho  WELLS. 

From  The  North  American  Review.  Copyright,  1908,  by  the 
North  American  Review  Publishing  Company. 


POEMS 

HYMN  TO   SPIRITUAL   DESIRE 


MOTHER  of  visions,  with  lineaments  dulcet  as  numbers 

Breathed  on  the  eyelids  of  Love  by  music  that 
slumbers, 

Secretly,  sweetly,  O  presence  of  fire  and  snow, 

Thou  comest  mysterious, 

In  beauty  imperious, 

Clad  on  with  dreams  and  the  light  of  no  world  that  we 
know: 

Deep  to  my  innermost  soul  am  I  shaken, 

Helplessly  shaken  and  tossed, 

And  of  thy  tyrannous  yearnings  so  utterly  taken, 

My  lips,  unsatisfied,  thirst ; 

Mine  eyes  are  accurst 

With  longings  for  visions  that  far  in  the  night  are  for 
saken  ; 

And  mine  ears,  in  listening  lost, 

Yearn,  waiting  the  note  of  a  chord  that  will  never 
awaken. 


2  HYMN  TO   SPIRITUAL   DESIRE 

II 

Like  palpable  music  thou  comest,  like  moonlight ;  and 

far,  - 

Resonant  bar  upon  bar,  — 
The  vibrating  lyre 

Of  the  spirit  responds  with  melodious  fire, 
As  thy  fluttering  fingers  now  grasp  it  and  ardently  shake, 
With  laughter  and  ache, 

The  chords  of  existence,  the  instrument  star-sprung, 
Whose  frame  is  of  clay,  so  wonderfully  molded  of  mire. 

Ill 

Vested  with  vanquishment,  come,  O  Desire,  Desire  ! 
Breathe  in  this  harp  of  my  soul  the  audible  angel  of 

Love  ! 

Make  of  my  heart  an  Israfel  burning  above, 
A  lute  for  the  music  of  God,  that  lips,  which  are  mortal, 

but  stammer ! 

/ 

Smite  every  rapturous  wire 

With  golden  delirium,  rebellion  and  silvery  clamor, 

Crying  —  "Awake!  awake! 

Too  long  hast  thou  slumbered !  too  far  from  the  regions 

of  glamour 
With  its  mountains  of  magic,  its  fountains  of  faery,  the 

spar-sprung, 
Hast  thou  wandered  away,  O  Heart ! 


HYMN   TO   SPIRITUAL   DESIRE  3 

Come,  oh,  come  and  partake 

Of  necromance  banquets  of  Beauty ;  and  slake 

Thy  thirst  in  the  waters  of  Art, 

That  are  drawn  from  the  streams 

Of  love  and  of  dreams. 

IV 

"Come,  oh,  come  ! 

No  longer  shall  language  be  dumb  ! 

Thy  vision  shall  grasp  — 

As  one  doth  the  glittering  hasp 

Of  a  sword  made  splendid  with  gems  and  with  gold  — 

The  wonder  and  richness  of  life,  not  anguish  and  hate  of 

it  merely. 

And  out  of  the  stark 
Eternity,  awful  and  dark, 
Immensity  silent  and  cold,  — 

Universe-shaking  as  trumpets,  or  cymbaling  metals, 
Imperious ;  yet  pensive  and  pearly 
And  soft  as  the  rosy  unfolding  of  petals, 
Or   crumbling    aroma    of    blossoms    that   wither   too 

early,  — 

The  majestic  music  of  God,  where  He  plays 
On  the  organ,  eternal  and  vast,  of  eons  and  days." 


BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,  O  NIGHT 


BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,  O  Night,  in  thy  noon 

Move  with  majesty  onward  !  soaring,  as  lightly 

As  a  singer  may  soar  the  notes  of  an  exquisite  tune, 

The  stars  and  the  moon 

Through  the  clerestories  high  of  the  heaven,  the  firma 
ment's  halls : 

Under  whose  sapphirine  walls, 

June,  hesperian  June, 

Robed  in  divinity  wanders.     Daily  and  nightly 

The  turquoise  touch  of  her  robe,  that  the  violets  star, 

The  silvery  fall  of  her  feet,  that  lilies  are, 

Fill  the  land  with  languorous  light  and  perfume.  —  ' 

Is  it  the  melody  mute  of  burgeoning  leaf  and  of  bloom  ? 

The  music  of  Nature,  that  silently  shapes  in  the  gloom 

Immaterial  hosts 

Of  spirits  that  have  the  flowers  and  leaves  in  their 
keep, 

Whom  I  hear,  whom  I  hear  ? 

With  their  sighs  of  silver  and  pearl  ? 

Invisible  ghosts,  — 

Each  sigh  a  shadowy  girl,  — • 

4 


BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,    O   NIGHT          5 

Who  whisper  in  leaves  and  glimmer  in  blossoms  and 

hover 
In  color  and  fragrance  and  loveliness,  breathed  from  the 

deep 

World-soul  of  the  mother, 
Nature ;  who  over  and  over,  — 
Both  sweetheart  and  lover,  — 
Goes  singing  her  songs  from  one  sweet  month  to  the 

other. 

II 

Lo  !  'tis  her  songs  that  appear,  appear, 
In  forest  and  field,  on  hill-land  and  lea, 
As  visible  harmony, 
Materialized  melody, 

Crystallized  beauty,  that  out  of  the  atmosphere 
Utters  itself,  in  wonder  and  mystery, 
Peopling  with  glimmering  essence  the  hyaline  far  and 
the  near.  .  .  . 

Ill 

Behold  how  it  sprouts  from  the  grass  and  blossoms  from 

flower  and  tree ! 

In  waves  of  diaphanous  moonlight  and  mist, 
In  fugue  upon  fugue  of  gold  and  of  amethyst, 
Around  me,  above  me  it  spirals;  now  slower,  now 

faster, 


6          BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,   O   NIGHT 

Like  symphonies  born  of  the  thought  of  a  musical 

master.  — 

O  music  of  Earth  !    O  God,  who  the  music  inspired  ! 
Let  me  breathe  of  the  life  of  thy  breath  ! 
And  so  be  fulfilled  and  attired 
In  resurrection,  triumphant  o'er  time  and  o'er  death  ! 


DISCOVERY 

WHAT  is  it  now  that  I  shall  seek 
Where  woods  dip  downward,  in  the  hills  ? 
A  mossy  nook,  a  ferny  creek, 
And  May  among  the  daffodils. 

Or  in  the  valley's  vistaed  glow, 
Past  rocks  of  terraced  trumpet  vines, 
Shall  I  behold  her  coming  slow, 
Sweet  May,  among  the  columbines  ? 

With  redbud  cheeks  and  bluet  eyes, 
Big  eyes,  the  homes  of  happiness, 
To  meet  me  with  the  old  surprise, 
Her  wild-rose  hair  all  bonnetless. 

Who  waits  for  me,  where,  note  for  note, 
The  birds  make  glad  the  forest  trees  ?  — 
A  dogwood  blossom  at  her  throat, 
My  May  among  th'  anemones. 

As  sweetheart  breezes  kiss  the  blooms, 
And  dews  caress  the  moon's  pale  beams, 
My  soul  shall  drink  her  lips'  perfumes, 
And  know  the  magic  of  her  dreams. 

7 


O  MAYTIME  WOODS! 

From  the  idyll  "  Wild  Thorn  and  Lily  " 

0  MAYTIME  woods  !    O  Maytime  lanes  and  hours  ! 
And  stars,  that  knew  how  often  there  at  night 
Beside  the  path,  where  woodbine  odors  blew 
Between  the  drowsy  eyelids  of  the  dusk,  — 
When,  like  a  great,  white,  pearly  moth,  the  moon 
Hung  silvering  long  windows  of  your  room,  — 

1  stood  among  the  shrubs  !    The  dark  house  slept. 
I  watched  and  waited  for  —  I  know  not  what !  — 
Some  tremor  of  your  gown :  a  velvet  leaf's 
Unfolding  to  caresses  of  the  Spring : 

The  rustle  of  your  footsteps :  or  the  dew 
Syllabling  avowal  on  a  tulip's  lips 
Of  odorous  scarlet :  or  the  whispered  word 
Of  something  lovelier  than  new  leaf  or  rose  — 
The  word  young  lips  half  murmur  in  a  dream : 

Serene  with  sleep,  light  visions  weigh  her  eyes : 
And  underneath  her  window  blooms  a  quince. 

The  night  is  a  sultana  who  doth  rise 
In  slippered  caution,  to  admit  a  prince, 

Love,  who  her  eunuchs  and  her  lord  defies. 
8 


O   MAYTIME   WOODS!  9 

Are  these  her  dreams  ?  or  is  it  that  the  breeze 
Pelts  me  with  petals  of  the  quince,  and  lifts 

The  Balm-o'-Gilead  buds  ?  and  seems  to  squeeze 
Aroma  on  aroma  through  sweet  rifts 

Of  Eden,  dripping  through  the  rainy  trees. 

Along  the  path  the  buckeye  trees  begin 

To  heap  their  hills  of  blossoms.  —  Oh,  that  they 

Were  Romeo  ladders,  whereby  I  might  win 

Her  chamber's  sanctity  !  —  where  dreams  must  pray 

About  her  soul !  —  That  I  might  enter  in  !  — 

A  dream,  —  and  see  the  balsam  scent  erase 
Its  dim  intrusion ;  and  the  starry  night 

Conclude  majestic  pomp ;  the  virgin  grace 
Of  every  bud  abashed  before  the  white, 

Pure  passion-flower  of  her  sleeping  face. 


THE   REDBIRD 

From  "  Wild  Thorn  and  Lily  " 

AMONG  the  white  haw-blossoms,  where  the  creek 
Droned  under  drifts  of  dogwood  and  of  haw, 
The  redbird,  like  a  crimson  blossom  blown 
Against  the  snow-white  bosom  of  the  Spring, 
The  chaste  confusion  of  her  lawny  breast, 
Sang  on,  prophetic  of  serener  days, 
As  confident  as  June's  completer  hours. 
And  I  stood  listening  like  a  hind,  who  hears 
A  wood  nymph  breathing  in  a  forest  flute 
Among  the  beech-boles  of  myth-haunted  ways : 
And  when  it  ceased,  the  memory  of  the  air 
Blew  like  a  syrinx  in  my  brain :  I  made 
A  lyric  of  the  notes  that  men  might  know : 

He  flies  with  flirt  and  fluting  — 

As  flies  a  crimson  star 
From  flaming  star-beds  shooting  — 

From  where  the  roses  are. 

Wings  past  and  sings ;  and  seven 
Notes,  wild  as  fragrance  is,  — 


THE   REDBIRD 

That  turn  to  flame  in  heaven,  — 
Float  round  him  full  of  bliss. 

He  sings ;  each  burning  feather 
Thrills,  throbbing  at  his  throat ; 

A  song  of  firefly  weather, 
And  of  a  glowworm  boat : 

Of  Elfland  and  a  princess 
Who,  born  of  a  perfume, 

His  music  rocks,  —  where  winces 
That  rosebud's  cradled  bloom. 

No  bird  sings  half  so  airy, 
No  bird  of  dusk  or  dawn, 

Thou  masking  King  of  Faery  ! 
Thou  red-crowned  Oberon ! 


A  NIELLO 


IT  is  not  early  spring  and  yet 
Of  bloodroot  blooms  along  the  stream, 
And  blotted  banks  of  violet, 
My  heart  will  dream. 

Is  it  because  the  windflower  apes 
The  beauty  that  was  once  her  brow, 
That  the  white  memory  of  it  shapes 
The  April  now  ? 

Because  the  wild-rose  wears  the  blush 
That  once  made  sweet  her  maidenhood, 
Its  thought  makes  June  of  barren  bush 
And  empty  wood  ? 

And  then  I  think  how  young  she  died  - 
Straight,  barren  Death  stalks  down  the  trees, 
The  hard-eyed  Hours  by  his  side, 
That  kill  and  freeze. 


12 


A  NIELLO  13 

II 

When  orchards  are  in  bloom  again 

My  heart  will  bound,  my  blood  will  beat, 

To  hear  the  redbird  so  repeat, 

On  boughs  of  rosy  stain, 
His  blithe,  loud  song,  —  like  some  far  strain 
From  out  the  past,  —  among  the  bloom,  — 
(Where  bee  and  wasp  and  hornet  boom)  — 

Fresh,  redolent  of  rain. 

When  orchards  are  in  bloom  once  more, 
Invasions  of  lost  dreams  will  draw 
My  feet,  like  some  insistent  law, 

Through  blossoms  to  her  door : 
In  dreams  I'll  ask  her,  as  before, 
To  let  me  help  her  at  the  well ; 
And  fill  her  pail ;  and  long  to  tell 

My  love  as  once  of  yore. 

I  shall  not  speak  until  we  quit 
The  farm-gate,  leading  to  the  lane 
And  orchard,  all  in  bloom  again, 

Mid  which  the  bluebirds  sit 
And  sing ;  and  through  whose  blossoms  flit 
The  catbirds  crying  while  they  fly : 
Then  tenderly  I'll  speak,  and  try 

To  tell  her  all  of  it. 


14  A   NIELLO 

And  in  my  dream  again  she'll  place 
Her  hand  in  mine,  as  oft  before,  — 
When  orchards  are  in  bloom  once  more,  — 

With  all  her  young-girl  grace : 
And  we  shall  tarry  till  a  trace 
Of  sunset  dyes  the  heav'ns ;  and  then  — 
We'll  part ;  and,  parting,  I  again 

Shall  bend  and  kiss  her  face. 

And  homeward,  singing,  I  shall  go 
Along  the  cricket-chirring  ways, 
While  sunset,  one  long  crimson  blaze 

Of  orchards,  lingers  low : 
And  my  dead  youth  again  I'll  know, 
And  all  her  love,  when  spring  is  here  — 
Whose  memory  holds  me  many  a  year, 

Whose  love  still  haunts  me  so  ! 

Ill 

I  would  not  die  when  Springtime  lifts 

The  white  world  to  her  maiden  mouth, 
And  heaps  its  cradle  with  gay  gifts, 

Breeze-blown  from  out  the  singing  South 
Too  full  of  life  and  loves  that  cling ; 

Too  heedless  of  all  mortal  woe, 
The  young,  unsympathetic  Spring, 

That  Death  should  never  know. 


A  NIELLO  15 

I  would  not  die  when  Summer  shakes 

Her  daisied  locks  below  her  hips, 
And  naked  as  a  star  that  takes 

A  cloud,  into  the  silence  slips : 
Too  rich  is  Summer ;  poor  in  needs ; 

In  egotism  of  loveliness 
Her  pomp  goes  by,  and  never  heeds 

One  life  the  more  or  less. 

But  I  would  die  when  Autumn  goes, 

The  dark  rain  dripping  from  her  hair, 
Through  forests  where  the  wild  wind  blows 

Death  and  the  red  wreck  everywhere : 
Sweet  as  love's  last  farewells  and  tears 

To  fall  asleep  when  skies  are  gray, 
In  the  old  autumn  of  my  years, 

Like  a  dead  leaf  borne  far  away. 


IN    MAY 


WHEN  you  and  I  in  the  hills  went  Maying, 
You  and  I  in  the  bright  May  weather, 
The  birds,  that  sang  on  the  boughs  together, 

There  in  the  green  of  the  woods,  kept  saying 
All  that  my  heart  was  saying  low, 
"  I  love  you!  love  you!"  soft  and  low, — 
And  did  you  know  ? 

When  you  and  I  in  the  hills  went  Maying. 


II 

There  where  the  brook  on  its  rocks  went  winking, 
There  by  its  banks  where  the  May  had  led  us, 
Flowers,  that  bloomed  in  the  woods  and  meadows, 
Azure  and  gold  at  our  feet,  kept  thinking 
All  that  my  soul  was  thinking  there, 
"I  love  you  !  love  you  !"   softly  there  — 

And  did  you  care  ? 

There  where  the  brook  on  its  rocks  went  winking. 
16 


IN   MAY  17 


III 


Whatever  befalls  through  fate's  compelling, 
Should  our  paths  unite  or  our  pathways  sever, 
In  the  Mays  to  come  I  shall  feel  forever 
The  wildflowers  thinking,  the  wild  birds  telling, 
In  words  as  soft  as  the  falling  dew, 
The  love  that  I  keep  here  still  for  you, 

Both  deep  and  true, 
Whatever  befalls  through  fate's  compelling. 


AUBADE 

AWAKE  !  the  dawn  is  on  the  hills  ! 

Behold,  at  her  cool  throat  a  rose, 

Blue-eyed  and  beautiful  she  goes, 
Leaving  her  steps  in  daffodils.  — 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  let  me  see 

Thine  eyes,  whose  deeps  epitomize 
All  dawns  that  were  or  are  to  be, 

O  love,  all  Heaven  in  thine  eyes  !  — 
Awake  !  arise  !  come  down  to  me  ! 

Behold !  the  dawn  is  up :  behold  ! 

How  all  the  birds  around  her  float, 

Wild  rills  of  music,  note  on  note, 
Spilling  the  air  with  mellow  gold.  — 
Arise  !  awake  !  and,  drawing  near, 

Let  me  but  hear  thee  and  rejoice  ! 
Thou,  who  keep'st  captive,  sweet  and  clear, 

All  song,  O  love,  within  thy  voice  ! 
Arise  !  awake  !  and  let  me  hear  ! 

See,  where  she  comes,  with  limbs  of  day, 
The  dawn  !  with  wild-rose  hands  and  feet, 
Within  whose  veins  the  sunbeams  beat, 

And  laughters  meet  of  wind  and  ray. 
18 


AUBADE  19 

Arise  !  come  down  !  and,  heart  to  heart, 
Love,  let  me  clasp  in  thee  all  these  — 

The  sunbeam,  of  which  thou  art  part, 
And  all  the  rapture  of  the  breeze  !  — 

Arise  !  come  down  !  loved  that  thou  art ! 


APOCALYPSE 

BEFORE  I  found  her  I  had  found 
Within  my  heart,  as  in  a  brook, 

Reflections  of  her :  now  a  sound 
Of  imaged  beauty ;  now  a  look. 

So  when  I  found  her,  gazing  in 
Those  Bibles  of  her  eyes,  above 

All  earth,  I  read  no  word  of  sin ; 
Their  holy  chapters  all  were  love. 

I  read  them  through.     I  read  and  saw 
The  soul  impatient  of  the  sod  — 

Her  soul,  that  through  her  eyes  did  draw 
Mine  —  to  the  higher  love  of  God. 


PENETRALIA 

I  AM  a  part  of  all  you  see 

In  Nature ;  part  of  all  you  feel : 

I  am  the  impact  of  the  bee 

Upon  the  blossom ;  in  the  tree 

I  am  the  sap,  —  that  shall  reveal 

The  leaf,  the  bloom,  —  that  flows  and  flutes 

Up  from  the  darkness  through  its  roots. 

I  am  the  vermeil  of  the  rose, 

The  perfume  breathing  in  its  veins ; 

The  gold  within  the  mist  that  glows 

Along  the  west  and  overflows 

With  light  the  heaven ;  the  dew  that  rains 

Its  freshness  down  and  strings  with  spheres 

Of  wet  the  webs  and  oaten  ears. 

I  am  the  egg  that  folds  the  bird ; 

The  song  that  beaks  and  breaks  its  shell ; 

The  laughter  and  the  wandering  word 

The  water  says ;  and,  dimly  heard, 

The  music  of  the  blossom's  bell 

When  soft  winds  swing  it ;  and  the  sound 

Of  grass  slow-creeping  o'er  the  ground. 

21 


22  PENETRALIA 

I  am  the  warmth,  the  honey-scent 
That  throats  with  spice  each  lily-bud 
That  opens,  white  with  wonderment, 
Beneath  the  moon ;  or,  downward  bent, 
Sleeps  with  a  moth  beneath  its  hood : 
I  am  the  dream  that  haunts  it  too, 
That  crystallizes  into  dew. 

I  am  the  seed  within  the  pod ; 

The  worm  within  its  closed  cocoon : 

The  wings  within  the  circling  clod, 

The  germ,  that  gropes  through  soil  and  sod 

To  beauty,  radiant  in  the  noon : 

I  am  all  these,  behold  !  and  more  — 

I  am  the  love  at  the  world-heart's  core. 


ELUSION 


MY  soul  goes  out  to  her  who  says, 
"Come,  follow  me  and  cast  off  care  !" 
Then  tosses  back  her  sun-bright  hair, 
And  like  a  flower  before  me  sways 
Between  the  green  leaves  and  my  gaze : 
This  creature  like  a  girl,  who  smiles 
Into  my  eyes  and  softly  lays 
Her  hand  in  mine  and  leads  me  miles, 
Long  miles  of  haunted  forest  ways. 

II 

Sometimes  she  seems  a  faint  perfume, 
A  fragrance  that  a  flower  exhaled 
And  God  gave  form  to ;  now,  unveiled, 
A  sunbeam  making  gold  the  gloom 
Of  vines  that  roof  some  woodland  room 
Of  boughs ;  and  now  the  silvery  sound 
Of  streams  her  presence  doth  assume  — 
Music,  from  which,  in  dreaming  drowned, 
A  crystal  shape  she  seems  to  bloom. 
23 


24  ELUSION 


III 

Sometimes  she  seems  the  light  that  lies 
On  foam  of  waters  where  the  fern 
Shimmers  and  drips ;  now,  at  some  turn 
Of  woodland,  bright  against  the  skies, 
She  seems  the  rainbowed  mist  that  flies ; 
And  now  the  mossy  fire  that  breaks 
Beneath  the  feet  in  azure  eyes 
Of  flowers ;  now  the  wind  that  shakes 
Pale  petals  from  the  bough  that  sighs. 

IV 

Sometimes  she  lures  me  with  a  song ; 

Sometimes  she  guides  me  with  a  laugh ; 

Her  white  hand  is  a  magic  staff, 

Her  look  a  spell  to  lead  me  long : 

Though  she  be  weak  and  I  be  strong, 

She  needs  but  shake  her  happy  hair, 

But  glance  her  eyes,  and,  right  or  wrong, 

My  soul  must  follow  —  anywhere 

She  wills  —  far  from  the  world's  loud  throng. 

V 

Sometimes  I  think  that  she  must  be 
No  part  of  earth,  but  merely  this  — 


ELUSION  25 

The  fair,  elusive  thing  we  miss 

In  Nature,  that  we  dream  we  see 

Yet  never  see :  that  goldenly 

Beckons ;  that,  limbed  with  rose  and  pearl, 

The  Greek  made  a  divinity :  — 

A  nymph,  a  god,  a  glimmering  girl, 

That  haunts  the  forest's  mystery. 


WOMANHOOD 

I 

THE  summer  takes  its  hue 

From  something  opulent  as  fair  in  her, 

And  the  bright  heaven  is  brighter  than  it  was ; 

Brighter  and  lovelier, 

Arching  its  beautiful  blue, 

Serene  and  soft,  as  her  sweet  gaze,  o'er  us. 

II 

The  springtime  takes  its  moods 

From  something  in  her  made  of  smiles  and  tears, 

And  flowery  earth  is  flowerier  than  before, 

And  happier,  it  appears, 

Adding  new  multitudes 

To  flowers,  like  thoughts,  that  haunt  us  evermore. 

Ill 

Summer  and  spring  are  wed 
In  her  —  her  nature ;  and  the  glamour  of 
Their  loveliness,  their  bounty,  as  it  were, 
Of  life  and  joy  and  love, 
Her  being  seems  to  shed,  — 
The  magic  aura  of  the  heart  of  her. 
26 


THE    IDYLL    OF    THE    STANDING-STONE 

THE  teasel  and  the  horsemint  spread 
The  hillside  as  with  sunset,  sown 
With  blossoms,  o'er  the  Standing-Stone 

That  ripples  in  its  rocky  bed : 
There  are  no  treasuries  that  hold 
Gold  richer  than  the  marigold 

That  crowns  its  sparkling  head. 

'Tis  harvest  time  :  a  mower  stands 
Among  the  morning  wheat  and  whets 
His  scythe,  and  for  a  space  forgets 

The  labor  of  the  ripening  lands ; 

Then  bends,  and  through  the  dewy  grain 
His  long  scythe  hisses,  and  again 

He  swings  it  in  his  hands. 

And  she  beholds  him  where  he  mows 

On  acres  whence  the  water  sends 

Faint  music  of  reflecting  bends 
And  falls  that  interblend  with  flows : 

She  stands  among  the  old  bee-gums,  — 

Where  all  the  apiary  hums,  — 
A  simple  bramble-rose. 
27 


28    THE   IDYLL   OF  THE   STANDING-STONE 

She  hears  him  whistling  as  he  leans, 

And,  reaping,  sweeps  the  ripe  wheat  by ; 
She  sighs  and  smiles,  and  knows  not  why, 

Nor  what  her  heart's  disturbance  means : 
He  whets  his  scythe,  and,  resting,  sees 
Her  rose-like  'mid  the  hives  of  bees, 

Beneath  the  flowering  beans. 

The  peacock-purple  lizard  creeps 
Along  the  rail ;  and  deep  the  drone 
Of  insects  makes  the  country  lone 

With  summer  where  the  water  sleeps : 
She  hears  him  singing  as  he  swings 
His  scythe  —  who  thinks  of  other  things 

Than  toil,  and,  singing,  reaps. 


NOERA 

NOERA,  when  sad  Fall 

Has  grayed  the  fallow ; 
Leaf-cramped  the  wood-brook's  brawl 

In  pool  and  shallow ; 
When,  by  the  woodside,  tall 

Stands  sere  the  mallow. 

Noera,  when  gray  gold 

And  golden  gray 
The  crackling  hollows  fold 

By  every  way, 
Shall  I  thy  face  behold, 

Dear  bit  of  May  ? 

When  webs  are  cribs  for  dew, 

And  gossamers 
Streak  by  you,  silver-blue ; 

When  silence  stirs 
One  leaf,  of  rusty  hue, 

Among  the  burrs : 

Noera,  through  the  wood, 
Or  through  the  grain, 
29 


3o  NOERA 

Come,  with  the  hoiden  mood 

Of  wind  and  rain 
Fresh  in  thy  sunny  blood, 

Sweetheart,  again. 

Noera,  when  the  corn, 
Reaped  on  the  fields, 

The  asters'  stars  adorn ; 
And  purple  shields 

Of  ironweeds  lie  torn 
Among  the  wealds : 

Noera,  haply  then, 
Thou  being  with  me, 

Each  ruined  greenwood  glen 
Will  bud  and  be 

Spring's  with  the  spring  again, 
The  spring  in  thee. 

Thou  of  the  breezy  tread ; 

Feet  of  the  breeze : 
Thou  of  the  sunbeam  head ; 

Heart  like  a  bee's : 
Face  like  a  woodland-bred 

Anemone's. 

Thou  to  October  bring 
An  April  part ! 


NOERA  31 

Come  !  make  the  wild  birds  sing, 

The  blossoms  start ! 
Noera,  with  the  spring 

Wild  in  thy  heart ! 

Come  with  our  golden  year : 

Come  as  its  gold : 
With  the  same  laughing,  clear, 

Loved  voice  of  old : 
In  thy  cool  hair  one  dear 

Wild  marigold. 


THE  OLD  SPRING 

I 

UNDER  rocks  whereon  the  rose 

Like  a  streak  of  morning  glows ; 

Where  the  azure-throated  newt 

Drowses  on  the  twisted  root ; 

And  the  brown  bees,  humming  homeward, 

Stop  to  suck  the  honeydew ; 

Fern-  and  leaf-hid,  gleaming  gloamward, 

Drips  the  wildwood  spring  I  knew, 

Drips  the  spring  my  boyhood  knew, 

II 

Myrrh  and  music  everywhere 
Haunt  its  cascades  —  like  the  hair 
That  a  Naiad  tosses  cool, 
Swimming  strangely  beautiful, 
With  white  fragrance  for  her  bosom, 
And  her  mouth  a  breath  of  song  — 
Under  leaf  and  branch  and  blossom 
Flows  the  woodland  spring  along, 
Sparkling,  singing  flows  along. 
32 


THE   OLD   SPRING  33 

III 

Still  the  wet  wan  mornings  touch 
Its  gray  rocks,  perhaps ;  and  such 
Slender  stars  as  dusk  may  have 
Pierce  the  rose  that  roofs  its  wave ; 
Still  the  thrush  may  call  at  noontide 
And  the  whippoorwill  at  night ; 
Nevermore,  by  sun  or  moontide, 
Shall  I  see  it  gliding  white, 
Falling,  flowing,  wild  and  white. 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

HE  lived  beyond  men,  and  so  stood 
Admitted  to  the  brotherhood 
Of  beauty :  —  dreams,  with  which  he  trod 
Companioned  like  some  sylvan  god. 
And  oft  men  wondered,  when  his  thought 
Made  all  their  knowledge  seem  as  naught, 
If  he,  like  Uther's  mystic  son, 
Had  not  been  born  for  Avalon. 

When  wandering  mid  the  whispering  trees, 

His  soul  communed  with  every  breeze ; 

Heard  voices  calling  from  the  glades, 

Bloom-words  of  the  Leimoniads ; 

Or  Dryads  of  the  ash  and  oak, 

Who  syllabled  his  name  and  spoke 

With  him  of  presences  and  powers 

That  glimpsed  in  sunbeams,  gloomed  in  showers. 

By  every  violet-hallowed  brook, 
Where  every  bramble-matted  nook 
Rippled  and  laughed  with  water  sounds, 
He  walked  like  one  on  sainted  grounds, 

34 


A   DREAMER   OF   DREAMS  35 

Fearing  intrusion  on  the  spell 
That  kept  some  fountain-spirit's  well, 
Or  woodland  genius,  sitting  where 
Red,  racy  berries  kissed  his  hair. 


Once  when  the  wind,  far  o'er  the  hill, 

Had  fall'n  and  left  the  wildwood  still 

For  Dawn's  dim  feet  to  trail  across,  — 

Beneath  the  gnarled  boughs,  on  the  moss, 

The  air  around  him  golden-ripe 

With  daybreak,  —  there,  with  oaten  pipe, 

His  eyes  beheld  the  wood-god,  Pan, 

Goat-bearded,  horned ;  half  brute,  half  man ; 

Who,  shaggy-haunched,  a  savage  rhyme 

Blew  in  his  reed  to  rudest  time ; 

And  swollen-jowled,  with  rolling  eye  — 

Beneath  the  slowly  silvering  sky, 

Whose  rose  streaked  through  the  forest's  roof  — 

Danced,  while  beneath  his  boisterous  hoof 

The  branch  was  snapped,  and,  interfused 

Between  gnarled  roots,  the  moss  was  bruised. 

And  often  when  he  wandered  through 
Old  forests  at  the  fall  of  dew  — 
A  new  Endymion,  who  sought 
A  beauty  higher  than  all  thought  — 


36  A  DREAMER  OF   DREAMS 

Some  night,  men  said,  most  surely  he 

Would  favored  be  of  deity : 

That  in  the  holy  solitude 

Her  sudden  presence,  long-pursued, 

Unto  his  gaze  would  stand  confessed : 

The  awful  moonlight  of  her  breast 

Come,  high  with  majesty,  and  hold 

His  heart's  blood  till  his  heart  grew  cold, 

Unpulsed,  unsinewed,  all  undone, 

And  snatch  his  soul  to  Avalon. 


DEEP  IN  THE  FOREST 

I 
SPRING  ON  THE  HILLS 

AH,  shall  I  follow,  on  the  hills, 
The  Spring,  as  wild  wings  follow  ? 

Where  wild-plum  trees  make  wan  the  hills, 
Crabapple  trees  the  hollow, 
Haunts  of  the  bee  and  swallow  ? 

In  redbud  brakes  and  flowery 

Acclivities  of  berry ; 
In  dogwood  dingles,  showery 

With  white,  where  wrens  make  merry  ? 

Or  drifts  of  swarming  cherry  ? 

In  valleys  of  wild  strawberries, 
And  of  the  clumped  May-apple ; 

Or  cloudlike  trees  of  haw-berries, 
With  which  the  south  winds  grapple, 
That  brook  and  byway  dapple  ? 

With  eyes  of  far  forgetfulness,  — 
Like  some  wild  wood-thing's  daughter, 
37 


38  DEEP  IN  THE   FOREST 

Whose  feet  are  beelike  fretfulness,  — 
To  see  her  run  like  water 
Through  boughs  that  slipped  or  caught  her. 

O  Spring,  to  seek,  yet  find  you  not ! 

To  search,  yet  never  win  you  ! 
To  glimpse,  to  touch,  but  bind  you  not ! 

To  lose,  and  still  continue, 

All  sweet  evasion  in  you  ! 

In  pearly,  peach-blush  distances 
You  gleam ;  the  woods  are  braided 

Of  myths ;  of  dream-existences  .  .  . 
There,  where  the  brook  is  shaded, 
A  sudden  splendor  faded. 

O  presence,  like  the  primrose's, 

Again  I  feel  your  power  ! 
With  rainy  scents  of  dim  roses, 

Like  some  elusive  flower, 

Who  led  me  for  an  hour  ! 

II 

Moss  AND  FERN 

Where  rise  the  brakes  of  bramble  there, 

Wrapped  with  the  trailing  rose ; 
Through  cane  where  waters  ramble,  there 


DEEP   IN  THE   FOREST  39 

Where  deep  the  sword-grass  grows, 

Who  knows  ? 

Perhaps,  unseen  of  eyes  of  man, 
Hides  Pan. 

Perhaps  the  creek,  whose  pebbles  make 

A  foothold  for  the  mint, 
May  bear,  —  where  soft  its  trebles  make 
Confession,  —  softie  vague  hint, 

(The  print, 

Goat-hoofed,  of  one  who  lightly  ran,) 
Of  Pan. 

Where,  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills 

Ferns  deepen  to  the  knees, 
What  sounds  are  those  above  the  hills, 
And  now  among  the  trees  ?  — 

No  breeze !  — 

The  syrinx,  haply,  none  may  scan, 
Of  Pan. 

In  woods  where  waters  break  upon 

The  hush  like  some  soft  word ; 
Where  sun-shot  shadows  shake  upon 
The  moss,  who  has  not  heard  — 

No  bird  !  — 

The  flute,  as  breezy  as  a  fan, 
Of  Pan? 


40  DEEP  IN  THE  FOREST 

Far  in,  where  mosses  lay  for  us 
Still  carpets,  cool  and  plush ; 
Where  bloom  and  branch  and  ray  for  us 
Sleep,  waking  with  a  rush  — 

The  hush 

But  sounds  the  satyr  hoof  a  span 
Of  Pan. 

O  woods,  —  whose  thrushes  sing  to  us, 
Whose  brooks  dance  sparkling  heels ; 
Whose  wild  aromas  cling  to  us,  — 
While  here  our  wonder  kneels, 

Who  steals 

Upon  us,  brown  as  bark  with  tan, 
But  Pan  ? 


Ill 

THE  THORN  TREE 

The  night  is  sad  with  silver  and  the  day  is  glad  with 
gold, 

And  the  woodland  silence  listens  to  a  legend  never  old, 

Of  the  Lady  of  the  Fountain,  whom  the  faery  people 
know, 

With  her  limbs  of  samite  whiteness  and  her  hair  of  gol 
den  glow, 


DEEP  IN  THE   FOREST  41 

Whom  the  boyish  South  Wind  seeks  for  and  the  girlish- 
stepping  Rain ; 

Whom  the  sleepy  leaves  still  whisper  men  shall  never 
see  again : 

She  whose  Vivien  charms  were  mistress  of  the  magic 
Merlin  knew, 

That  could  change  the  dew  to  glowworms  and  the  glow 
worms  into  dew. 

There's  a  thorn  tree  in  the  forest,  and  the  faeries  know 
the  tree, 

With  its  branches  gnarled  and  wrinkled  as  a  face  with 
sorcery ; 

But  the  Maytime  brings  it  clusters  of  a  rainy  fragrant 
white, 

Like  the  bloom-bright  brows  of  beauty  or  a  hand  of 
lifted  light. 

And  all  day  the  silence  whispers  to  the  sun-ray  of  the 
morn 

How  the  bloom  is  lovely  Vivien  and  how  Merlin  is  the 
thorn : 

How  she  won  the  doting  wizard  with  her  naked  loveli 
ness 

Till  he  told  her  daemon  secrets  that  must  make  his 
magic  less. 

How  she  charmed  him  and  enchanted  in  the  thorn-tree's 
thorns  to  lie 


42  DEEP   IN  THE   FOREST 

Forever  with  his  passion  that  should  never  dim  or  die : 
And  with  wicked  laughter  looking  on  this  thing  which 

she  had  done, 

Like  a  visible  aroma  lingered  sparkling  in  the  sun : 
How  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  pathos  of  an  elf-lock  of  his 

beard, 

In  a  mockery  of  parting  and  mock  pity  of  his  weird : 
But  her  magic  had  forgotten  that  "who  bends  to  give  a 

kiss 
Will  but  bring  the  curse  upon  them  of  the  person  whose 

it  is": 
So  the  silence  tells  the  secret.  —  And  at  night  the  faeries 

see 
How  the  tossing  bloom  is  Vivien,  who  is  struggling  to  be 

free, 
In  the  thorny  arms  of  Merlin,  who  forever  is  the  tree. 

IV 

THE  HAMADRYAD 

She  stood  among  the  longest  ferns 

.  The  valley  held ;  and  in  her  hand 
One  blossom,  like  the  light  that  burns 

Vermilion  o'er  a  sunset  land ; 

And  round  her  hair  a  twisted  band 
Of  pink-pierced  mountain-laurel  blooms : 

And  darker  than  dark  pools,  that  stand 


DEEP   IN  THE   FOREST  43 

Below  the  star-communing  glooms, 
Her  eyes  beneath  her  hair's  perfumes. 

I  saw  the  moonbeam  sandals  on 

Her  flowerlike  feet,  that  seemed  too  chaste 
To  tread  true  gold :   and,  like  the  dawn 

On  splendid  peaks  that  lord  a  waste 

Of  solitude  lost  gods  have  graced, 
Her  face :   she  stood  there,  faultless-hipped, 

Bound  as  with  cestused  silver,  —  chased 
With  acorn-cup  and  crown,  and  tipped 
With  oak  leaves,  —  whence  her  chiton  slipped. 

Limbs  that  the  gods  call  loveliness  !  — 

The  grace  and  glory  of  all  Greece 
Wrought  in  one  marble  shape  were  less 

Than  her  perfection  !  —  'Mid  the  trees 

I  saw  her  —  and  time  seemed  to  cease 
For  me.  —  And,  lo  !  I  lived  my  old 

Greek  life  again  of  classic  ease, 
Barbarian  as  the  myths  that  rolled 
Me  back  into  the  Age  of  Gold. 


PRELUDES 


THERE  is  no  rhyme  that  is  half  so  sweet 

As  the  song  of  the  wind  in  the  rippling  wheat ; 

There  is  no  metre  that's  half  so  fine 

As  the  lilt  of  the  brook  under  rock  and  vine ; 

And  the  loveliest  lyric  I  ever  heard 

Was  the  wildwood  strain  of  a  forest  bird.  — 

If  the  wind  and  the  brook  and  the  bird  would  teach 

My  heart  their  beautiful  parts  of  speech, 

And  the  natural  art  that  they  say  these  with, 

My  soul  would  sing  of  beauty  and  myth 

In  a  rhyme  and  metre  that  none  before 

Have  sung  in  their  love,  or  dreamed  in  their  lore, 

And  the  world  would  be  richer  one  poet  the  more. 

II 

A  thought  to  lift  me  up  to  those 

Sweet  wildflowers  of  the  pensive  woods ; 

The  lofty,  lowly  attitudes 

Of  bluet  and  of  bramble-rose : 

To  lift  me  where  my  mind  may  reach 

The  lessons  which  their  beauties  teach. 


PRELUDES 

A  dream,  to  lead  my  spirit  on 

With  sounds  of  faery  shawms  and  flutes, 

And  all  mysterious  attributes 

Of  skies  of  dusk  and  skies  of  dawn  : 

To  lead  me,  like  the  wandering  brooks, 

Past  all  the  knowledge  of  the  books. 

A  song,  to  make  my  heart  a  guest 
Of  happiness  whose  soul  is  love ; 
One  with  the  life  that  knoweth  of 
But  song  that  turneth  toil  to  rest : 
To  make  me  cousin  to  the  birds, 
Whose  music  needs  not  wisdom's  words. 


45 


MAY 

THE  golden  discs  of  the  rattlesnake-weed, 
That  spangle  the  woods  and  dance  — 

No  gleam  of  gold  that  the  twilights  hold 
Is  strong  as  their  necromance : 

For,  under  the  oaks  where  the  woodpaths  lead, 

The  golden  discs  of  the  rattlesnake- weed 
Are  the  May's  own  utterance. 

The  azure  stars  of  the  bluet  bloom, 
That  sprinkle  the  woodland's  trance  — 

No  blink  of  blue  that  a  cloud  lets  through 
Is  sweet  as  their  countenance : 

For,  over  the  knolls  that  the  woods  perfume, 

The  azure  stars  of  the  bluet  bloom 
Are  the  light  of  the  May's  own  glance. 

With  her  wondering  words  and  her  looks  she  comes, 

In  a  sunbeam  of  a  gown ; 
She  needs  but  think  and  the  blossoms  wink, 

But  look,  and  they  shower  down. 
By  orchard  ways,  where  the  wild  bee  hums, 
With  her  wondering  words  and  her  looks  she  comes 

Like  a  little  maid  to  town. 
46 


WHAT    LITTLE    THINGS! 

From  "  One  Day  and  Another  " 

WHAT  little  things  are  those 
That  hold  our  happiness! 

A  smile,  a  glance,  a  rose 

Dropped  from  her  hair  or  dress ; 

A  word,  a  look,  a  touch,  — 
These  are  so  much,  so  much. 

An  air  we  can't  forget ; 

A  sunset's  gold  that  gleams ; 
A  spray  of  mignonette, 

Will  fill  the  soul  with  dreams 
More  than  all  history  says, 

Or  romance  of  old  days. 

For  of  the  human  heart, 

Not  brain,  is  memory ; 
These  things  it  makes  a  part 

Of  its  own  entity ; 
The  joys,  the  pains  whereof 

Are  the  very  food  of  love. 
47 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  BEECHES 

IN  the  shadow  of  the  beeches, 

Where  the  fragile  wildflowers  bloom ; 

Where  the  pensive  silence  pleaches 
Green  a  roof  of  cool  perfume, 

Have  you  felt  an  awe  imperious 

As  when,  in  a  church,  mysterious 
Windows  paint  with  God  the  gloom  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  the  beeches, 

Where  the  rock-ledged  waters  flow ; 

Where  the  sun's  slant  splendor  bleaches 
Every  wave  to  foaming  snow, 

Have  you  felt  a  music  solemn 

As  when  minster  arch  and  column 
Echo  organ  worship  low  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  the  beeches, 

Where  the  light  and  shade  are  blent ; 

Where  the  forest  bird  beseeches, 

And  the  breeze  is  brimmed  with  scent,  — 

Is  it  joy  or  melancholy 

That  o'erwhelms  us  partly,  wholly, 
To  our  spirit's  betterment  ? 
48 


IN  THE   SHADOW  OF  THE   BEECHES     49 

In  the  shadow  of  the  beeches 

Lay  me  where  no  eye  perceives ; 
Where,  —  like  some  great  arm  that  reaches 

Gently  as  a  love  that  grieves,  — 
One  gnarled  root  may  clasp  me  kindly, 
While  the  long  years,  working  blindly, 

Slowly  change  my  dust  to  leaves. 


UNREQUITED 

PASSION  ?  not  hers  !  who  held  me  with  pure  eyes : 
One  hand  among  the  deep  curls  of  her  brow, 

I  drank  the  girlhood  of  her  gaze  with  sighs : 
She  never  sighed,  nor  gave  me  kiss  or  vow. 

So  have  I  seen  a  clear  October  pool, 
Cold,  liquid  topaz,  set  within  the  sere 

Gold  of  the  woodland,  tremorless  and  cool, 
Reflecting  all  the  heartbreak  of  the  year. 

Sweetheart?  not  she!  whose  voice  was  music-sweet ; 

Whose  face  loaned  language  to  melodious  prayer. 
Sweetheart  I  called  her.  —  When  did  she  repeat 

Sweet  to  one  hope,  or  heart  to  one  despair  ! 

So  have  I  seen  a  wildflower's  fragrant  head 
Sung  to  and  sung  to  by  a  longing  bird ; 

And  at  the  last,  albeit  the  bird  lay  dead, 
No  blossom  wilted,  for  it  had  not  heard. 


THE  SOLITARY 

UPON  the  mossed  rock  by  the  spring 
She  sits,  forgetful  of  her  pail, 

Lost  in  remote  remembering 

Of  that  which  may  no  more  avail. 

Her  thin,  pale  hair  is  dimly  dressed 
Above  a  brow  lined  deep  with  care, 

The  color  of  a  leaf  long  pressed, 
A  faded  leaf  that  once  was  fair. 

You  may  not  know  her  from  the  stone 
So  still  she  sits  who  does  not  stir, 

Thinking  of  this  one  thing  alone  — 
The  love  that  never  came  to  her. 


A  TWILIGHT  MOTH 

DUSK  is  thy  dawn ;  when  Eve  puts  on  its  state 
Of  gold  and  purple  in  the  marbled  west, 

Thou  comest  forth  like  some  embodied  trait, 
Or  dim  conceit,  a  lily  bud  confessed ; 

Or  of  a  rose  the  visible  wish ;  that,  white, 

Goes  softly  messengering  through  the  night, 
Whom  each  expectant  flower  makes  its  guest. 

All  day  the  primroses  have  thought  of  thee, 
Their  golden  heads  close-haremed  from  the  heat ; 

All  day  the  mystic  moonflowers  silkenly 

Veiled  snowy  faces,  —  that  no  bee  might  greet, 

Or  butterfly  that,  weighed  with  pollen,  passed ;  — 

Keeping  Sultana  charms  for  thee,  at  last, 
Their  lord,  who  comest  to  salute  each  sweet. 

Cool-throated  flowers  that  avoid  the  day's 
Too  fervid  kisses ;  every  bud  that  drinks 

The  tipsy  dew  and  to  the  starlight  plays 

Nocturnes  of  fragrance,  thy  wing'd  shadow  links 

In  bonds  of  secret  brotherhood  and  faith ; 

O  bearer  of  their  order's  shibboleth, 

Like  some  pale  symbol  fluttering  o'er  these  pinks. 
52 


A  TWILIGHT  MOTH  53 

What  dost  thou  whisper  in  the  balsam's  ear 
That  sets  it  blushing,  or  the  hollyhock's,  — 

A  syllabled  silence  that  no  man  may  hear,  — 
As  dreamily  upon  its  stem  it  rocks  ? 

What  spell  dost  bear  from  listening  plant  to  plant, 

Like  some  white  witch,  some  ghostly  ministrant, 
Some  specter  of  some  perished  flower  of  phlox  ? 

O  voyager  of  that  universe  which  lies 

Between  the  four  walls  of  this  garden  fair,  — 

Whose  constellations  are  the  fireflies 
That  wheel  their  instant  courses  everywhere,  — 

Mid  faery  firmaments  wherein  one  sees 

Mimic  Bootes  and  the  Pleiades, 
Thou  steerest  like  some  faery  ship  of  air. 

Gnome-wrought  of  moonbeam-fluff  and  gossamer, 
Silent  as  scent,  perhaps  thou  chariotest 

Mab  or  King  Oberon ;  or,  haply,  her 

His  queen,  Titania,  on  some  midnight  quest.  — 

Oh  for  the  herb,  the  magic  euphrasy, 

That  should  unmask  thee  to  mine  eyes,  ah  me  ! 
And  all  that  world  at  which  my  soul  hath  guessed  ! 


THE  OLD   FARM 

DORMERED  and  verandaed,  cool, 
Locust-girdled,  on  the  hill ; 

Stained  with  weather- wear,  and  dull- 
Streak'd  with  lichens ;  every  sill 

Thresholding  the  beautiful ; 

I  can  see  it  standing  there, 

Brown  above  the  woodland  deep, 

Wrapped  in  lights  of  lavender, 
By  the  warm  wind  rocked  asleep, 

Violet  shadows  everywhere. 

I  remember  how  the  Spring, 
Liberal-lapped,  bewildered  its 

Acred  orchards,  murmuring, 
Kissed  to  blossom ;  budded  bits 

Where  the  wood-thrush  came  to  sing. 

Barefoot  Spring,  at  first  who  trod, 
Like  a  beggermaid,  adown 

The  wet  woodland ;  where  the  god, 
With  the  bright  sun  for  a  crown 

And  the  firmament  for  rod, 
54 


THE   OLD   FARM  55 

Met  her ;  clothed  her ;  wedded  her ; 

Her  Cophetua :  when,  lo  ! 
All  the  hill,  one  breathing  blur, 

Burst  in  beauty ;  gleam  and  glow 
Blent  with  pearl  and  lavender. 

Seckel,  blackheart,  palpitant 

Rained  their  bleaching  strays ;  and  white 
Snowed  the  damson,  bent  aslant; 

Rambow-tree  and  romanite 
Seemed  beneath  deep  drifts  to  pant. 

And  it  stood  there,  brown  and  gray, 

In  the  bee-boom  and  the  bloom, 
In  the  shadow  and  the  ray, 

In  the  passion  and  perfume, 
Grave  as  age  among  the  gay. 

Wild  with  laughter  romped  the  clear 

Boyish  voices  round  its  walls ; 
Rare  wild-roses  were  the  dear 

Girlish  faces  in  its  halls, 
Music-haunted  all  the  year. 

Far  before  it  meadows  full 
Of  green  pennyroyal  sank ; 


56  THE   OLD   FARM 

Clover-dotted  as  with  wool 

Here  and  there ;  with  now  a  bank 
Hot  of  color ;  and  the  cool 

Dark-blue  shadows  unconfined 
Of  the  clouds  rolled  overhead : 

Clouds,  from  which  the  summer  wind 
Blew  with  rain,  and  freshly  shed 

Dew  upon  the  flowerkind. 

Where  through  mint  and  gypsy-lily 
Runs  the  rocky  brook  away, 

Musical  among  the  hilly 

Solitudes,  —  its  flashing  spray 

Sunlight-dashed  or  forest-stilly,  — 

Buried  in  deep  sassafras, 
Memory  follows  up  the  hill 

Still  some  cowbell's  mellow  brass, 
Where  the  ruined  water-mill 

Looms,  half-hid  in  cane  and  grass.  .  . 

Oh,  the  farmhouse  !  is  it  set 
On  the  hilltop  still  ?  'mid  musk 

Of  the  meads  ?  where,  violet, 
Deepens  all  the  dreaming  dusk, 

And  the  locust-trees  hang  wet. 


THE   OLD   FARM  57 

While  the  sunset,  far  and  low, 
On  its  westward  windows  dashes 

Primrose  or  pomegranate  glow ; 
And  above,  in  glimmering  splashes, 

Lilac  stars  the  heavens  sow. 

Sleeps  it  still  among  its  roses,  — 

Oldtime  roses  ?  while  the  choir 
Of  the  lonesome  insects  dozes : 

And  the  white  moon,  drifting  higher, 
O'er  its  mossy  roof  reposes  — 
Sleeps  it  still  among  its  roses  ? 


THE   WHIPPOORWILL 


ABOVE  lone  woodland  ways  that  led 
To  dells  the  stealthy  twilights  tread 
The  west  was  hot  geranium  red ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Along  old  lanes  the  locusts  sow 
With  clustered  pearls  the  May  times  know, 
Deep  in  the  crimson  afterglow, 
We  heard  the  homeward  cattle  low, 
And  then  the  far-off,  far-off  woe 

Of  "  whippoorwill !"  of  "  whippoorwill !" 


II 


Beneath  the  idle  beechen  boughs 
We  heard  the  far  bells  of  the  cows 
Come  slowly  jangling  towards  the  house ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Beyond  the  light  that  would  not  die 
Out  of  the  scarlet-haunted  sky ; 
58 


THE   WHIPPOORWILL  59 

Beyond  the  evening-star's  white  eye 
Of  glittering  chalcedony, 
Drained  out  of  dusk  the  plaintive  cry 
Of  "whippoorwill,"  of  "whippoorwill." 

Ill 

And  in  the  city  oft,  when  swims 

The  pale  moon  o'er  the  smoke  that  dims 

Its  disc,  I  dream  of  wildwood  limbs ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
I  seem  to  hear,  where  shadows  grope 
Mid  ferns  and  flowers  that  dewdrops  rope,  — 
Lost  in  faint  deeps  of  heliotrope 
Above  the  clover-sweetened  slope,  — 
Retreat,  despairing,  past  all  hope, 

The  whippoorwill,  the  whippoorwill. 


REVEALMENT 

A  SENSE  of  sadness  in  the  golden  air ; 

A  pensiveness,  that  has  no  part  in  care, 
As  if  the  Season,  by  some  woodland  pool, 

Braiding  the  early  blossoms  in  her  hair, 

Seeing  her  loveliness  reflected  there, 
Had  sighed  to  find  herself  so  beautiful. 

A  breathlessness ;  a  feeling  as  of  fear ; 

Holy  and  dim,  as  of  a  mystery  near, 
As  if  the  World,  about  us,  whispering  went 

With  lifted  finger  and  hand-hollowed  ear, 

Hearkening  a  music,  that  we  cannot  hear, 
Haunting  the  quickening  earth  and  firmament. 

A  prescience  of  the  soul  that  has  no  name ; 

Expectancy  that  is  both  wild  and  tame, 
As  if  the  Earth,  from  out  its  azure  ring 

Of  heavens,  looked  to  see,  as  white  as  flame,  — 

As  Perseus  once  to  chained  Andromeda  came,  - 
The  swift,  divine  revealment  of  the  Spring. 


60 


HEPATICAS 

IN  the  frail  hepaticas,  — 

That  the  early  Springtide  tossed, 

Sapphire-like,  along  the  ways 
Of  the  woodlands  that  she  crossed,  — 

I  behold,  with  other  eyes, 

Footprints  of  a  dream  that  flies. 

One  who  leads  me ;  whom  I  seek : 

In  whose  loveliness  there  is 
All  the  glamour  that  the  Greek 

Knew  as  wind-borne  Artemis.  — 
I  am  mortal.     Woe  is  me  ! 

Her  sweet  immortality ! 

Spirit,  must  I  always  fare, 
Following  thy  averted  looks  ? 

Now  thy  white  arm,  now  thy  hair, 

Glimpsed  among  the  trees  and  brooks  ? 

Thou  who  hauntest,  whispering, 
All  the  slopes  and  vales  of  Spring. 
61 


62  HEPATICAS 

Cease  to  lure  !  or  grant  to  me 
All  thy  beauty  !  though  it  pain, 

Slay  with  splendor  utterly  ! 
Flash  revealment  on  my  brain  ! 

And  one  moment  let  me  see 
All  thy  immortality ! 


THE  WIND  OF  SPRING 

THE  wind  that  breathes  of  columbines 
And  celandines  that  crowd  the  rocks ; 
That  shakes  the  balsam  of  the  pines 
With  laughter  from  his  airy  locks, 
Stops  at  my  city  door  and  knocks. 

He  calls  me  far  a-forest,  where 

The  twin-leaf  and  the  blood-root  bloom ; 

And,  circled  by  the  amber  air, 

Life  sits  with  beauty  and  perfume 

Weaving  the  new  web  of  her  loom. 

He  calls  me  where  the  waters  run 

Through  f ronding  ferns  where  wades  the  hern ; 

And,  sparkling  in  the  equal  sun, 

Song  leans  above  her  brimming  urn, 

And  dreams  the  dreams  that  love  shall  learn. 

The  wind  has  summoned,  and  I  go : 
To  read  God's  meaning  in  each  line 
The  wildflowers  write ;  and,  walking  slow, 
God's  purpose,  of  which  song  is  sign,  — 
The  wind's  great,  gusty  hand  in  mine. 
63 


THE   CATBIRD 


THE  tufted  gold  of  the  sassafras, 

And  the  gold  of  the  spicewood-bush, 
Bewilder  the  ways  of  the  forest  pass, 

And  brighten  the  underbrush : 
The  white-starred  drifts  of  the  wild-plum  tree, 

And  the  haw  with  its  pearly  plumes, 
And  the  redbud,  misted  rosily, 

Dazzle  the  woodland  glooms. 


II 

And  I  hear  the  song  of  the  catbird  wake 

I'  the  boughs  o'  the  gnarled  wild-crab, 
Or  there  where  the  snows  of  the  dogwood  shake, 

That  the  silvery  sunbeams  stab  : 
And  it  seems  to  me  that  a  magic  lies 

In  the  crystal  sweet  of  its  notes, 
That  a  myriad  blossoms  open  their  eyes 

As  its  strain  above  them  floats. 
64 


THE   CATBIRD  65 

III 

I  see  the  bluebell's  blue  unclose, 

And  the  trillium's  stainless  white ; 
The  birdfoot-violet's  purple  and  rose, 

And  the  poppy,  golden-bright ! 
And  I  see  the  eyes  of  the  bluet  wink, 

And  the  heads  of  the  white-hearts  nod ; 
And  the  baby  mouths  of  the  woodland-pink 

And  sorrel  salute  the  sod. 

IV 

And  this,  meseems,  does  the  catbird  say, 

As  the  blossoms  crowd  i'  the  sun  :  — 
"Up,  up  !  and  out !  oh,  out  and  away  ! 

Up,  up  !  and  out,  each  one  ! 
Sweethearts  !  sweethearts  !  oh,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 

Come  listen  and  hark  to  me  ! 
The  Spring,  the  Spring,  with  her  fragrant  feet, 
Is  passing  this  way  !  —  Oh,  hark  to  the  beat 
Of  her  beelike  heart !  —  Oh,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 

Come  !  open  your  eyes  and  see  ! 
See,  see,  see !" 


A  WOODLAND   GRAVE 

WHITE  moons  may  come,  white  moons  may  go 
She  sleeps  where  early  blossoms  blow ; 
Knows  nothing  of  the  leafy  June, 
That  leans  above  her  night  and  noon, 
Crowned  now  with  sunbeam,  now  with  moon, 
Watching  her  roses  grow. 

The  downy  moth  at  twilight  conies 
And  flutters  round  their  honeyed  blooms : 
Long,  lazy  clouds,  like  ivory, 
That  isle  the  blue  lagoons  of  sky, 
Redden  to  molten  gold  and  dye 
With  flame  the  pine-deep  glooms. 

Dew,  dripping  from  wet  fern  and  leaf ; 
The  wind,  that  shakes  the  violet's  sheaf ; 
The  slender  sound  of  water  lone, 
That  makes  a  harp-string  of  some  stone, 
And  now  a  wood  bird's  glimmering  moan, 
Seem  whisperings  there  of  grief. 

Her  garden,  where  the  lilacs  grew, 
Where,  on  old  walls,  old  roses  blew, 
66 


A  WOODLAND   GRAVE  67 

Head-heavy  with  their  mellow  musk, 
Where,  when  the  beetle's  drone  was  husk, 
She  lingered  in  the  dying  dusk, 
No  more  shall  know  that  knew. 

Her  orchard,  —  where  the  Spring  and  she 
Stood  listening  to  each  bird  and  bee,  — 
That,  from  its  fragrant  firmament, 
Snowed  blossoms  on  her  as  she  went, 
(A  blossom  with  their  blossoms  blent) 
No  more  her  face  shall  see. 

White  moons  may  come,  white  moons  may  go  — 
She  sleeps  where  early  blossoms  blow : 
Around  her  headstone  many  a  seed 
Shall  sow  itself ;  and  brier  and  weed 
Shall  grow  to  hide  it  from  men's  heed, 
And  none  will  care  or  know. 


SUNSET  DREAMS 

THE  moth  and  beetle  wing  about 
The  garden  ways  of  other  days ; 

Above  the  hills,  a  fiery  shout 

Of  gold,  the  day  dies  slowly  out, 

Like  some  wild  blast  a  huntsman  blows 
And  o'er  the  hills  my  Fancy  goes, 

Following  the  sunset's  golden  call 

Unto  a  vine-hung  garden  wall, 

Where  she  awaits  me  in  the  gloom, 
Between  the  lily  and  the  rose, 

With  arms  and  lips  of  warm  perfume, 
The  dream  of  Love  my  Fancy  knows. 

The  glowworm  and  the  firefly  glow 
Among  the  ways  of  bygone  days ; 

A  golden  shaft  shot  from  a  bow 

Of  silver,  star  and  moon  swing  low 
Above  the  hills  where  twilight  lies : 
And  o'er  the  hills  my  Longing  flies, 

Following  the  star's  far-arrowed  gold, 

Unto  a  gate  where,  as  of  old, 
68 


SUNSET  DREAMS  69 

She  waits  amid  the  rose  and  rue, 
With  star-bright  hair  and  night-dark  eyes, 

The  dream,  to  whom  my  heart  is  true, 
My  dream  of  Love  that  never  dies. 


THE  OLD   BYWAY 

ITS  rotting  fence  one  scarcely  sees 
Through  sumac  and  wild  blackberries, 

Thick  elder  and  the  bramble-rose, 
Big  ox-eyed  daisies  where  the  bees 

Hang  droning  in  repose. 

The  little  lizards  He  all  day 
Gray  on  its  rocks  of  lichen-gray ; 

And,  insect-Ariels  of  the  sun, 
The  butterflies  make  bright  its  way, 

Its  path  where  chipmunks  run. 

A  lyric  there  the  redbird  lifts, 
While,  twittering,  the  swallow  drifts 

'Neath  wandering  clouds  of  sleepy  cream,  - 
In  which  the  wind  makes  azure  rifts,  — 

O'er  dells  where  wood-doves  dream. 

The  brown  grasshoppers  rasp  and  bound 
Mid  weeds  and  briers  that  hedge  it  round ; 

And  in  its  grass-grown  ruts,  —  where  stirs 
The  harmless  snake,  —  mole-crickets  sound 

Their  faery  dulcimers. 
70 


THE   OLD   BYWAY  71 

At  evening,  when  the  sad  west  turns 
To  lonely  night  a  cheek  that  burns, 

The  tree-toads  in  the  wild-plum  sing ; 
And  ghosts  of  long-dead  flowers  and  ferns 

The  winds  wake,  whispering. 


"BELOW   THE   SUNSET'S    RANGE   OF   ROSE" 

BELOW  the  sunset's  range  of  rose, 
Below  the  heaven's  deepening  blue, 
Down  woodways  where  the  balsam  blows, 
And  milkweed  tufts  hang,  gray  with  dew, 
A  Jersey  heifer  stops  and  lows  — 
The  cows  come  home  by  one,  by  two. 

There  is  no  star  yet :  but  the  smell 

Of  hay  and  pennyroyal  mix 

With  herb  aromas  of  the  dell, 

Where  the  root-hidden  cricket  clicks : 

Among  the  ironweeds  a  bell 

Clangs  near  the  rail-fenced  clover-ricks. 

She  waits  upon  the  slope  beside 
The  windlassed  well  the  plum  trees  shade, 
The  well  curb  that  the  goose-plums  hide ; 
Her  light  hand  on  the  bucket  laid, 
Unbonneted  she  waits,  glad-eyed, 
Her  gown  as  simple  as  her  braid. 
72 


" BELOW  THE  SUNSET'S  RANGE  OF  ROSE"  73 

She  sees  fawn-colored  backs  among 
The  sumacs  now ;  a  tossing  horn 
Its  clashing  bell  of  copper  rung : 
Long  shadows  lean  upon  the  corn, 
And  slow  the  day  dies,  scarlet  stung, 
The  cloud  in  it  a  rosy  thorn. 

Below  the  pleasant  moon,  that  tips 
The  tree  tops  of  the  hillside,  fly 
The  flitting  bats ;  the  twilight  slips, 
In  firefly  spangles,  twinkling  by, 
Through  which  he  comes :  Their  happy  lips 
Meet  —  and  one  star  leaps  in  the  sky. 

He  takes  her  bucket,  and  they  speak 
Of  married  hopes  while  in  the  grass 
The  plum  drops  glowing  as  her  cheek ; 
The  patient  cows  look  back  or  pass : 
And  in  the  west  one  golden  streak 
Burns  as  if  God  gazed  through  a  glass. 


MUSIC  OF  SUMMER 


THOU  sit'st  among  the  sunny  silences 

Of  terraced  hills  and  woodland  galleries, 

Thou  utterance  of  all  calm  melodies, 

Thou  lutanist  of  Earth's  most  affluent  lute,  — 

Where  no  false  note  intrudes 
To  mar  the  silent  music,  —  branch  and  root,  — 
Charming  the  fields  ripe,  orchards  and  deep  woods, 

To  song  similitudes 

Of  flower  and  seed  and  fruit. 

II 

Oft  have  I  seen  thee,  in  some  sensuous  air, 
Bewitch  the  broad  wheat-acres  everywhere 
To  imitated  gold  of  thy  deep  hair : 
The  peach,  by  thy  red  lips'  delicious  trouble, 

Blown  into  gradual  dyes 
Of  crimson ;  and  beheld  thy  magic  double  — 
Dark-blue  with  fervid  influence  of  thine  eyes  — 

The  grapes'  rotundities, 

Bubble  by  purple  bubble. 
74 


MUSIC   OF   SUMMER  75 

III 

Deliberate  uttered  into  life  intense, 
Out  of  thy  soul's  melodious  eloquence 
Beauty  evolves  its  just  preeminence : 
The  lily,  from  some  pensive-smitten  chord 

Drawing  significance 
Of  purity,  a  visible  hush  stands :  starred 
With  splendor,  from  thy  passionate  utterance, 

The  rose  writes  its  romance 

In  blushing  word  on  word. 

IV 

As  star  by  star  Day  harps  in  Evening, 

The  inspiration  of  all  things  that  sing 

Is  in  thy  hands  and  from  their  touch  takes  wing : 

All  brooks,  all  birds,  —  whom  song  can  never  sate,  — 

The  leaves,  the  wind  and  rain, 
Green  frogs  and  insects,  singing  soon  and  late, 
Thy  sympathies  inspire,  thy  heart's  refrain, 

Whose  sounds  invigorate 

With  rest  life's  weary  brain. 


And  as  the  Night,  like  some  mysterious  rune, 
Its  beauty  makes  emphatic  with  the  moon, 
Thou  lutest  us  no  immaterial  tune : 


76  MUSIC   OF   SUMMER 

But  where  dim  whispers  haunt  the  cane  and  corn, 

By  thy  still  strain  made  strong, 
Earth's  awful  avatar,  —  in  whom  is  born 
Thy  own  deep  music,  —  labors  all  night  long 

With  growth,  assuring  Morn 

Assumes  with  onwrard  song. 


MIDSUMMER 

I 

THE  mellow  smell  of  hollyhocks 
And  marigolds  and  pinks  and  phlox 
Blends  with  the  homely  garden  scents 
Of  onions,  silvering  into  rods ; 
Of  peppers,  scarlet  with  their  pods; 
And  (rose  of  all  the  esculents) 
Of  broad  plebeian  cabbages, 
Breathing  content  and  corpulent  ease. 

II 

The  buzz  of  wasp  and  fly  makes  hot 
The  spaces  of  the  garden-plot ; 
And  from  the  orchard,  —  where  the  fruit 
Ripens  and  rounds,  or,  loosed  with  heat, 
Rolls,  hornet-clung,  before  the  feet,  — 
One  hears  the  veery's  golden  flute, 
That  mixes  with  the  sleepy  hum 
Of  bees  that  drowsily  go  and  come. 

Ill 

The  podded  musk  of  gourd  and  vine 
Embower  a  gate  of  roughest  pine, 

77 


78  MIDSUMMER 

That  leads  into  a  wood  where  day 
Sits,  leaning  o'er  a  forest  pool, 
Watching  the  lilies  opening  cool, 
And  dragonflies  at  airy  play, 
While,  dim  and  near,  the  quietness 
Rustles  and  stirs  her  leafy  dress. 

IV 

Far-off  a  cowbell  clangs  awake 
The  noon  who  slumbers  in  the  brake : 
And  now  a  pewee,  plaintively, 
Whistles  the  day  to  sleep  again : 
A  rain-crow  croaks  a  rune  for  rain, 
And  from  the  ripest  apple  tree 
A  great  gold  apple  thuds,  where,  slow, 
The  red  cock  curves  his  neck  to  crow. 

V 

Hens  cluck  their  broods  from  place  to  place, 
While  clinking  home,  with  chain  and  trace, 
The  cart-horse  plods  along  the  road 
Where  afternoon  sits  with  his  dreams : 
Hot  fragrance  of  hay-making  streams 
Above  him,  and  a  high-heaped  load 
Goes  creaking  by  and  with  it,  sweet, 
The  aromatic  soul  of  heat. 


MIDSUMMER  79 

VI 

"  Coo-ee  !  coo-ee  ! "  the  evenfall 
Cries,  and  the  hills  repeat  the  call : 
"Coo-ee  !  coo-ee  ! "  and  by  the  log 
Labor  unharnesses  his  plow, 
While  to  the  barn  comes  cow  on  cow : 
"Coo-ee  !  coo-ee  !"  —  and,  with  his  dog, 
Barefooted  boyhood  down  the  lane 
"Coo-ees"  the  cattle  home  again. 


THE    RAIN-CROW 


CAN  freckled  August,  —  drowsing  warm  and  blond 
Beside  a  wheat-shock  in  the  white- topped  mead, 

In  her  hot  hair  the  yellow  daisies  wound,  — 
O  bird  of  rain,  lend  aught  but  sleepy  heed 
To  thee  ?  when  no  plumed  weed,  no  feathered  seed 

Blows  by  her ;  and  no  ripple  breaks  the  pond, 
That  gleams  like  flint  within  its  rim  of  grasses, 
Through  which  the  dragonfly  forever  passes 
Like  splintered  diamond. 

II 

Drouth  weights  the  trees ;  and  from  the  farmhouse  eaves 

The  locust,  pulse-beat  of  the  summer  day, 
Throbs ;  and  the  lane,  that  shambles  under  leaves 
Limp  with  the  heat  —  a  league  of  rutty  way  — 
Is  lost  in  dust ;  and  sultry  scents  of  hay 
Breathe    from    the    panting    meadows    heaped    with 

sheaves  — 

Now,  now,  O  bird,  what  hint  is  there  of  rain, 
In  thirsty  meadow  or  on  burning  plain, 
That  thy  keen  eye  perceives  ? 
80 


THE   RAIN-CROW  81 

III 

But  thou  art  right.     Thou  prophesiest  true. 
For  hardly  hast  thou  ceased  thy  forecasting, 

When,  up  the  western  fierceness  of  scorched  blue, 
Great  water-carrier  winds  their  buckets  bring 
Brimming  with  freshness.     How  their  dippers  ring 

And  flash  and  rumble  !  lavishing  large  dew 
On  corn  and  forest  land,  that,  streaming  wet, 
Their  hilly  backs  against  the  downpour  set, 
Like  giants,  loom  in  view. 

IV 

The  butterfly,  safe  under  leaf  and  flower, 

Has  found  a  roof,  knowing  how  true  thou  art ; 

The  bumblebee,  within  the  last  half-hour, 
Has  ceased  to  hug  the  honey  to  its  heart ; 
While  in  the  barnyard,  under  shed  and  cart, 

Brood-hens  have  housed.  —  But  I,  who  scorned  thy 

power, 

Barometer  of  birds,  —  like  August  there,  — 
Beneath  a  beech,  dripping  from  foot  to  hair, 
Like  some  drenched  truant,  cower. 


FIELD    AND    FOREST    CALL 


THERE  is  a  field,  that  leans  upon  two  hills, 

Foamed  o'er  of  flowers  and  twinkling  with  clear  rills ; 

That  in  its  girdle  of  wild  acres  bears 

The  anodyne  of  rest  that  cures  all  cares ; 

Wherein  soft  wind  and  sun  and  sound  are  blent 

With  fragrance  —  as  in  some  old  instrument 

Sweet  chords ;  —  calm  things,  that  Nature's  magic  spell 

Distills  from  Heaven's  azure  crucible, 

And  pours  on  Earth  to  make  the  sick  mind  well. 

There  lies  the  path,  they  say  — 

Come  away  !  come  away  ! 

II 

There  is  a  forest,  lying  'twixt  two  streams, 
Sung  through  of  birds  and  haunted  of  dim  dreams ; 
That  in  its  league-long  hand  of  trunk  and  leaf 
Lifts  a  green  wand  that  charms  away  all  grief ; 
Wrought  of  quaint  silence  and  the  stealth  of  things, 
Vague,  whispering  touches,  gleams  and  twitterings, 
Dews  and  cool  shadows  —  that  the  mystic  soul 

82 


FIELD   AND   FOREST   CALL  83 

Of  Nature  permeates  with  suave  control, 

And  waves  o'er  Earth  to  make  the  sad  heart  whole. 

There  lies  the  road,  they  say  — 

Come  away  !  come  away  ! 


OLD    HOMES 

OLD  homes  among  the  hills  !  I  love  their  gardens ; 

Their  old  rock  fences,  that  our  day  inherits; 

Their  doors,  round  which  the  great  trees  stand  like 

wardens ; 

Their  paths,  down  which  the  shadows  march  like  spirits ; 
Broad  doors  and  paths  that  reach  bird-haunted  gardens. 

I  see  them  gray  among  their  ancient  acres, 
Severe  of  front,  their  gables  lichen-sprinkled,  — 
Like  gentle-hearted,  solitary  Quakers, 
Grave  and  religious,  with  kind  faces  wrinkled,  — 
Serene  among  their  memory -hallo  wed  acres. 

Their  gardens,  banked  with  roses  and  with  lilies  — 
Those  sweet  aristocrats  of  all  the  flowers  — 
Where  Springtime  mints  her  gold  in  daffodillies, 
And  Autumn  coins  her  marigolds  in  showers, 
And  all  the  hours  are  toilless  as  the  lilies. 

I  love  their  orchards  where  the  gay  woodpecker 
Flits,  flashing  o'er  you,  like  a  winged  jewel ; 
Their  woods,  whose  floors  of  moss  the  squirrels  checker 
With  half-hulled  nuts ;  and  where,  in  cool  renewal, 
The  wild  brooks  laugh,  and  raps  the  red  woodpecker. 

84 


OLD   HOMES  85 

Old  homes  !  old  hearts  !  Upon  my  soul  forever 
Their  peace  and  gladness  lie  like  tears  and  laughter ; 
Like  love  they  touch  me,  through  the  years  that  sever, 
With  simple  faith ;  like  friendship,  draw  me  after 
The  dreamy  patience  that  is  theirs  forever. 


THE  FOREST  WAY 


I  CLIMBED  a  forest  path  and  found 
A  dim  cave  in  the  dripping  ground, 
Where  dwelt  the  spirit  of  cool  sound, 
Who  wrought  with  crystal  triangles, 
And  hollowed  foam  of  rippled  bells, 
A  music  of  mysterious  spells. 

II 

Where  Sleep  her  bubble-jewels  spilled 
Of  dreams ;  and  Silence  twilight-filled 
Her  emerald  buckets,  star-instilled, 
With  liquid  whispers  of  lost  springs, 
And  mossy  tread  of  woodland  things, 
And  drip  of  dew  that  greenly  clings. 

Ill 

Here  by  those  servitors  of  Sound, 
Warders  of  that  enchanted  ground, 
My  soul  and  sense  were  seized  and  bound, 
And,  in  a  dungeon  deep  of  trees 
Entranced,  were  laid  at  lazy  ease, 
The  charge  of  woodland  mysteries. 
86 


THE  FOREST  WAY  87 

IV 

The  minions  of  Prince  Drowsihead, 
The  wood-perfumes,  with  sleepy  tread, 
Tiptoed  around  my  ferny  bed : 
And  far  away  I  heard  report 
Of  one  who  dimly  rode  to  Court, 
The  Faery  Princess,  Eve-Amort. 


Her  herald  winds  sang  as  they  passed ; 
And  there  her  beauty  stood  at  last, 
With  wild  gold  locks,  a  band  held  fast, 
Above  blue  eyes,  as  clear  as  spar ; 
While  from  a  curved  and  azure  jar 
She  poured  the  white  moon  and  a  star. 


SUNSET  AND  STORM 

DEEP  with  divine  tautology, 
The  sunset's  mighty  mystery 
Again  has  traced  the  scroll-like  west 
With  hieroglyphs  of  burning  gold : 
Forever  new,  forever  old, 
Its  miracle  is  manifest. 

Time  lays  the  scroll  away.     And  now 
Above  the  hills  a  giant  brow 
Of  cloud  Night  lifts ;  and  from  his  arm, 
Barbaric  black,  upon  the  world, 
With  thunder,  wind  and  fire,  is  hurled 
His  awful  argument  of  storm. 

What  part,  O  man,  is  yours  in  such  ? 
Whose  awe  and  wonder  are  in  touch 
With  Nature,  —  speaking  rapture  to 
Your  soul,  —  yet  leaving  in  your  reach 
No  human  word  of  thought  or  speech 
Commensurate  with  the  thing  you  view. 


QUIET  LANES 

From  the  lyrical  eclogue  "  One  Day  and  Another  " 

Now  rests  the  season  in  forgetfulness, 
Careless  in  beauty  of  maturity ; 
The  ripened  roses  round  brown  temples,  she 
Fulfills  completion  in  a  dreamy  guess. 
Now  Time  grants  night  the  more  and  day  the  less : 
The  gray  decides ;  and  brown 
Dim  golds  and  drabs  in  dulling  green  express 
Themselves  and  redden  as  the  year  goes  down. 
Sadder  the  fields  where,  thrusting  hoary  high 
Their  tasseled  heads,  the  Lear-like  corn-stocks  die, 
And,  Falstaff-like,  buff-bellied  pumpkins  lie.  — 
Deepening  with  tenderness, 
Sadder  the  blue  of  hills  that  lounge  along 
The  lonesome  west ;  sadder  the  song 
Of  the  wild  redbird  in  the  leafage  yellow.  — 
Deeper  and  dreamier,  aye! 
Than  woods  or  waters,  leans  the  languid  sky 
Above  lone  orchards  where  the  cider  press 
Drips  and  the  russets  mellow. 
89 


90  QUIET  LANES 

Nature  grows  liberal :  from  the  beechen  leaves 

The  beech-nuts'  burrs  their  little  purses  thrust, 

Plump  with  the  copper  of  the  nuts  that  rust ; 

Above  the  grass  the  spendthrift  spider  weaves 

A  web  of  silver  for  which  dawn  designs 

Thrice  twenty  rows  of  pearls :  beneath  the  oak, 

That  rolls  old  roots  in  many  gnarly  lines,  — 

The  polished  acorns,  from  their  saucers  broke, 

Strew  oval  agates.  —  On  sonorous  pines 

The  far  wind  organs ;  but  the  forest  near 

Is  silent ;  and  the  blue- white  smoke 

Of  burning  brush,  beyond  that  field  of  hay, 

Hangs  like  a  pillar  in  the  atmosphere : 

But    now    it    shakes  —  it    breaks,    and    all    the 

vines 

And  tree  tops  tremble ;  see  !  the  wind  is  here ! 
Billowing  and  boisterous ;  and  the  smiling  day 
Rejoices  in  its  clamor.     Earth  and  sky 
Resound  with  glory  of  its  majesty, 
Impetuous  splendor  of  its  rushing  by.  — 
But  on  those  heights  the  woodland  dark  is  still, 
Expectant  of  its  coming.  .  .  .     Far  away 
Each  anxious  tree  upon  each  waiting  hill 
Tingles  anticipation,  as  in  gray 
Surmise  of  rapture.     Now  the  first  gusts  play, 
Like  laughter  low,  about  their  rippling  spines ; 
And  now  the  wildwood,  one  exultant  sway, 


QUIET  LANES  91 

Shouts  —  and  the  light  at  each  tumultuous  pause, 
The  light  that  glooms  and  shines, 
Seems  hands  in  wild  applause. 

How  glows  that  garden !  —  Though  the  white  mists 

keep 

The  vagabonding  flowers  reminded  of 
Decay  that  comes  to  slay  in  open  love, 
When  the  full  moon  hangs  cold  and  night  is  deep ; 
Unheeding  still  their  cardinal  colors  leap 
Gay  in  the  crescent  of  the  blade  of  death,  — 
Spaced  innocents  whom  he  prepares  to  reap,  — 
Staying  his  scythe  a  breath 
To  mark  their  beauty  ere,  with  one  last  sweep, 
He  lays  them  dead  and  turns  away  to  weep.  — 
Let  me  admire,  — 
Before  the  sickle  of  the  coming  cold 
Shall  mow  them  down,  —  their  beauties  manifold : 
How  like  to  spurts  of  fire 
That  scarlet  salvia  lifts  its  blooms,  which  heap 
With  flame  the  sunlight.     And,  as  sparkles  creep 
Through  charring  vellum,  up  that  window's  screen 
The  cypress  dots  with  crimson  all  its  green, 
The  haunt  of  many  bees. 
Cascading  dark  old  porch-built  lattices, 
The  nightshade  bleeds  with  berries ;  drops  of  blood 
Hanging  in  clusters  'mid  the  blue  monk's-hood. 


92  QUIET  LANES 

There  is  a  garden  old, 

Where  bright-hued  clumps  of  zinnias  unfold 

Their  formal  flowers ;  where  the  marigold 

Lifts  a  pinched  shred  of  orange  sunset  caught 

And  elfed  in  petals ;  the  nasturtium, 

Deep,  pungent-leaved  and  acrid  of  perfume, 

Hangs  up  a  goblin  bonnet,  pixy-brought 

From  Gnomeland.     There,  predominant  red, 

And  arrogant,  the  dahlia  lifts  its  head, 

Beside  the  balsam's  rose-stained  horns  of  honey, 

Lost  in  the  murmuring,  sunny 

Dry  wildness  of  the  weedy  flower  bed ; 

Where  crickets  and  the  weed-bugs,  noon  and  night, 

Shrill  dirges  for  the  flowers  that  soon  shall  die, 

And  flowers  already  dead.  — 

I  seem  to  hear  the  passing  Summer  sigh : 

A  voice,  that  seems  to  weep,  — 

"Too  soon,  too  soon  the  Beautiful  passes  by  ! 

And  soon,  among  these  bowers 

Will  dripping  Autumn  mourn  with  all  her  flowers.1 

If  I,  perchance,  might  peep 

Beneath  those  leaves  of  podded  hollyhocks, 

That  the  bland  wind  with  odorous  murmurs  rocks, 

I  might  behold  her,  —  white 

And  weary,  —  Summer,  'mid  her  flowers  asleep, 

Her  drowsy  flowers  asleep, 

The  withered  poppies  knotted  in  her  locks. 


ONE  WHO  LOVED  NATURE 


HE  was  not  learned  in  any  art ; 
But  Nature  led  him  by  the  hand ; 
And  spoke  her  language  to  his  heart 
So  he  could  hear  and  understand : 
He  loved  her  simply  as  a  child ; 
And  in  his  love  forgot  the  heat 
Of  conflict,  and  sat  reconciled 
In  patience  of  defeat. 

II 

Before  me  now  I  see  him  rise  — 

A  face,  that  seventy  years  had  snowed 

With  winter,  where  the  kind  blue  eyes 

Like  hospitable  fires  glowed : 

A  small  gray  man  whose  heart  was  large, 

And  big  with  knowledge  learned  of  need ; 

A  heart,  the  hard  world  made  its  targe, 

That  never  ceased  to  bleed. 

Ill 

He  knew  all  Nature.     Yea,  he  knew 
What  virtue  lay  within  each  flower, 
93 


94  ONE   WHO  LOVED   NATURE 

What  tonic  in  the  dawn  and  dew, 
And  in  each  root  what  magic  power : 
What  in  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree 
Reversed  its  time  of  blossoming, 
And  clothed  its  branches  goldenly 
In  fall  instead  of  spring. 

IV 

He  knew  what  made  the  firefly  glow 
And  pulse  with  crystal  gold  and  flame ; 
And  whence  the  bloodroot  got  its  snow, 
And  how  the  bramble's  perfume  came : 
He  understood  the  water's  word 
And  grasshopper's  and  cricket's  chirr ; 
And  of  the  music  of  each  bird 
He  was  interpreter. 

V 

He  kept  no  calendar  of  days, 

But  knew  the  seasons  by  the  flowers ; 

And  he  could  tell  you  by  the  rays 

Of  sun  or  stars  the  very  hours. 

He  probed  the  inner  mysteries 

Of  light,  and  knew  the  chemic  change 

That  colors  flowers,  and  what  is 

Their  fragrance  wild  and  strange. 


ONE   WHO  LOVED   NATURE  95 

VI 

If  some  old  oak  had  power  of  speech, 
It  could  not  speak  more  wildwood  lore, 
Nor  in  experience  further  reach, 
Than  he  who  was  a  tree  at  core. 
Nature  was  all  his  heritage, 
And  seemed  to  fill  his  every  need ; 
Her  features  were  his  book,  whose  page 
He  never  tired  to  read. 

VII 

He  read  her  secrets  that  no  man 
Has  ever  read  and  never  will, 
And  put  to  scorn  the  charlatan 
Who  botanizes  of  her  still. 
He  kept  his  knowledge  sweet  and  clean, 
And  questioned  not  of  why  and  what ; 
And  never  drew  a  line  between 
What's  known  and  what  is  not. 

VIII 

He  was  most  gentle,  good,  and  wise ; 
A  simpler  heart  earth  never  saw : 
His  soul  looked  softly  from  his  eyes, 
And  in  his  speech  were  love  and  awe. 


96  ONE   WHO  LOVED   NATURE 

Yet  Nature  in  the  end  denied 

The  thing  he  had  not  asked  for  —  fame! 

Unknown,  in  poverty  he  died, 

And  men  forget  his  name. 


GARDEN  GOSSIP 

THIN,  chisel-fine  a  cricket  chipped 

The  crystal  silence  into  sound ; 
And  where  the  branches  dreamed  and  dripped 
A  grasshopper  its  dagger  stripped 

And  on  the  humming  darkness  ground. 

A  bat,  against  the  gibbous  moon, 

Danced,  implike,  with  its  lone  delight ; 

The  glowworm  scrawled  a  golden  rune 

Upon  the  dark ;  and,  emerald-strewn, 
The  firefly  hung  with  lamps  the  night. 

The  flowers  said  their  beads  in  prayer, 

Dew-syllables  of  sighed  perfume ; 
Or  talked  of  two,  soft-standing  there, 
One  like  a  gladiole,  straight  and  fair, 

And  one  like  some  rich  poppy-bloom. 

The  mignonette  and  feverfew 

Laid  their  pale  brows  together :  —  "See  ! " 
One  whispered:  "Did  their  step  thrill  through 
Your  roots?"  —  "Like  rain."  —  "I  touched  the  two 

And  a  new  bud  was  born  in  me." 
H  97 


98  GARDEN   GOSSIP 

One  rose  said  to  another :  —  "Whose 

Is  this  dim  music  ?  song,  that  parts 
My  crimson  petals  like  the  dews  ?" 
"My  blossom  trembles  with  sweet  news 
It  is  the  love  of  two  young  hearts." 


ASSUMPTION 


A  MILE  of  moonlight  and  the  whispering  wood : 
A  mile  of  shadow  and  the  odorous  lane : 

One  large,  white  star  above  the  solitude, 

Like  one  sweet  wish :  and,  laughter  after  pain, 
Wild-roses  wistful  in  a  web  of  rain. 

II 

No  star,  no  rose,  to  lesson  him  and  lead ; 

No  woodsman  compass  of  the  skies  and  rocks,  — 

Tattooed  of  stars  and  lichens,  —  doth  love  need 
To  guide  him  where,  among  the  hollyhocks, 
A  blur  of  moonlight,  gleam  his  sweetheart's  locks. 

Ill 

We  name  it  beauty  —  that  permitted  part, 

The  love-elected  apotheosis 
Of  Nature,  which  the  god  within  the  heart, 

Just  touching,  makes  immortal,  but  by  this  — 

A  star,  a  rose,  the  memory  of  a  kiss. 
99 


SENORITA 

AN  agate-black,  your  roguish  eyes 
Claim  no  proud  lineage  of  the  skies, 
No  starry  blue ;  but  of  good  earth 
The  reckless  witchery  and  mirth. 

Looped  in  your  raven  hair's  repose, 
A  hot  aroma,  one  red  rose 
Dies ;  envious  of  that  loveliness, 
By  being  near  which  its  is  less. 

Twin  sea  shells,  hung  with  pearls,  your  ears, 
Whose  slender  rosiness  appears 
Part  of  the  pearls ;  whose  pallid  fire 
Binds  the  attention  these  inspire. 

One  slim  hand  crumples  up  the  lace 
About  your  bosom's  swelling  grace ; 
A  ruby  at  your  samite  throat 
Lends  the  required  color  note. 

The  moon  bears  through  the  violet  night 
A  pearly  urn  of  chaliced  light ; 
And  from  your  dark-railed  balcony 
You  stoop  and  wave  your  fan  at  me. 

100 


SENORITA  101 

O'er  orange  orchards  and  the  rose 
Vague,  odorous  lips  the  south  wind  blows, 
Peopling  the  night  with  whispers  of 
Romance  and  palely  passionate  love. 

The  heaven  of  your  balcony 

Smiles  down  two  stars,  that  say  to  me 

More  peril  than  Angelica 

Wrought  with  her  beauty  in  Cathay. 

Oh,  stoop  to  me  !  and,  speaking,  reach 
My  soul  like  song  that  learned  sweet  speech 
From  some  dim  instrument  —  who  knows  ?  — 
Or  flower,  a  dulcimer  or  rose. 


OVERSEAS 

Non  numero  horas  nisi  serenas 

WHEN  Fall  drowns  morns  in  mist,  it  seems 

In  soul  I  am  a  part  of  it ; 
A  portion  of  its  humid  beams, 

A  form  of  fog,  I  seem  to  flit 
From  dreams  to  dreams.  .  .  . 

An  old  chateau  sleeps  'mid  the  hills 

Of  France :  an  avenue  of  sorbs 
Conceals  it :  drifts  of  daffodils 

Bloom  by  a  'scutcheoned  gate  with  barbs 
Like  iron  bills. 

I  pass  the  gate  unquestioned ;  yet, 

I  feel,  announced.     Broad  holm-oaks  make 

Dark  pools  of  restless  violet. 

Between  high  bramble  banks  a  lake,  — 
As  in  a  net 

The  tangled  scales  twist  silver,  —  shines.  .  .  . 

Gray,  mossy  turrets  swell  above 
A  sea  of  leaves.     And  where  the  pines 

Shade  ivied  walls,  there  lies  my  love, 
My  heart  divines. 

102 


OVERSEAS  103 

I  know  her  window,  slimly  seen 

From  distant  lanes  with  hawthorn  hedged : 
Her  garden,  with  the  nectarine 

Espaliered,  and  the  peach  tree,  wedged 
'Twixt  walls  of  green. 

Cool-babbling  a  fountain  falls 

From  gryphons'  mouths  in  porphyry ; 

Carp  haunt  its  waters ;  and  white  balls 
Of  lilies  dip  it  when  the  bee 
Creeps  in  and  drawls. 

And  butterflies  —  each  with  a  face 

Of  faery  on  its  wings  —  that  seem 
Beheaded  pansies,  softly  chase 

Each  other  down  the  gloom  and  gleam 
Trees  interspace. 

And  roses  !  roses,  soft  as  vair, 

Round  sylvan  statues  and  the  old 
Stone  dial  —  Pompadours,  that  wear 

Their  royalty  of  purple  and  gold 
With  wanton  air.  .  .  . 

Her  scarf,  her  lute,  whose  ribbons  breathe 
The  perfume  of  her  touch ;  her  gloves,  * 

Modeling  the  daintiness  they  sheathe ; 
Her  fan,  a  Watteau,  gay  with  loves, 
Lie  there  beneath 


104  OVERSEAS 

A  bank  of  eglantine,  that  heaps 
A  rose-strewn  shadow.  —  Naive-eyed, 

With  lips  as  suave  as  they,  she  sleeps ; 
The  romance  by  her,  open  wide, 
O'er  which  she  weeps. 


PROBLEMS 

MAN'S  are  the  learnings  of  his  books  — 
What  is  all  knowledge  that  he  knows 

Beside  the  wit  of  winding  brooks, 
The  wisdom  of  the  summer  rose  ! 

How  soil  distills  the  scent  in  flowers 
Baffles  his  science :  heaven-dyed, 

How,  from  the  palette  of  His  hours, 
God  gives  them  colors,  hath  defied. 

What  dream  of  heaven  begets  the  light  ? 

Or,  ere  the  stars  beat  burning  tunes, 
Stains  all  the  hollow  edge  of  night 

With  glory  as  of  molten  moons  ? 

Who  is  it  answers  what  is  birth 

Or  death,  that  nothing  may  retard  ? 

Or  what  is  love,  that  seems  of  Earth, 
Yet  wears  God's  own  divine  regard  ? 


TO  A  WINDFLOWER 


TEACH  me  the  secret  of  thy  loveliness, 
That,  being  made  wise,  I  may  aspire  to  be 

As  beautiful  in  thought,  and  so  express 
Immortal  truths  to  Earth's  mortality ; 

Though  to  my  soul  ability  be  less 
Than  'tis  to  thee,  O  sweet  anemone. 

II 

Teach  me  the  secret  of  thy  innocence, 

That  in  simplicity  I  may  grow  wise ; 
Asking  of  Art  no  other  recompense 

Than  the  approval  of  her  own  just  eyes ; 
So  may  I  rise  to  some  fair  eminence, 

Though  less  than  thine,  O  cousin  of  the  skies. 

Ill 

Teach  me  these  things ;    through  whose  high  knowl 
edge,  I,  — 

When  Death  hath  poured  oblivion  through  my  veins, 
106 


TO  A  WINDFLOWER  107 

And  brought  me  home,  as  all  are  brought,  to  lie 
In  that  vast  house,  common  to  serfs  and  thanes,  — 

I  shall  not  die,  I  shall  not  utterly  die, 

For  beauty  born  of  beauty  —  that  remains. 


VOYAGERS 

WHERE  are  they,  that  song  and  tale 
Tell  of  ?  lands  our  childhood  knew  ? 

Sea-locked  Faerylands  that  trail 
Morning  summits,  dim  with  dew, 

Crimson  o'er  a  crimson  sail. 

Where  in  dreams  we  entered  on 
Wonders  eyes  have  never  seen : 

Whither  often  we  have  gone, 
Sailing  a  dream-brigantine 

On  from  voyaging  dawn  to  dawn. 

Leons  seeking  lands  of  song ; 

Fabled  fountains  pouring  spray ; 
Where  our  anchors  dropped  among 

Corals  of  some  tropic  bay, 
With  its  swarthy  native  throng. 

Shoulder  ax  and  arquebus  !  — 
We  may  find  it !  —  past  yon  range 

Of  sierras,  vaporous, 

Rich  with  gold  and  wild  and  strange 

That  lost  region  dear  to  us. 
108 


VOYAGERS  109 

Yet,  behold,  although  our  zeal 

Darien  summits  may  subdue, 
Our  Balboa  eyes  reveal 

But  a  vaster  sea  come  to  — 
New  endeavor  for  our  keel. 

Yet !  who  sails  with  face  set  hard 
Westward,  —  while  behind  him  lies 

Unfaith,  —  where  his  dreams  keep  guard 
Round  it,  in  the  sunset  skies, 

He  may  reach  it  —  afterward. 


THE  SPELL 

"We  have  the  receipt  of  fern  seed:  we  walk  invisible." 

—  HENRY  IV 

AND  we  have  met  but  twice  or  thrice  !  — 

Three  times  enough  to  make  me  love  !  — 
I  praised  your  hair  once ;  then  your  glove ; 

Your  eyes ;  your  gown  ;  —  you  were  like  ice ; 
And  yet  this  might  suffice,  my  love, 
And  yet  this  might  suffice. 

St.  John  hath  told  me  what  to  do : 

To  search  and  find  the  ferns  that  grow 
The  fern  seed  that  the  faeries  know ; 

Then  sprinkle  fern  seed  in  my  shoe, 

And  haunt  the  steps  of  you,  my  dear, 
And  haunt  the  steps  of  you. 

You'll  see  the  poppy  pods  dip  here ; 

The  blow-ball  of  the  thistle  slip, 

And  no  wind  breathing  —  but  my  lip 
Next  to  your  anxious  cheek  and  ear, 

To  tell  you  I  am  near,  my  love, 

To  tell  you  I  am  near. 


THE   SPELL  in 

On  wood-ways  I  shall  tread  your  gown  — 

You'll  know  it  is  no  brier  !  —  then 

I'll  whisper  words  of  love  again, 
And  smile  to  see  your  quick  face  frown : 

And  then  I'll  kiss  it  down,  my  dear, 

And  then  I'll  kiss  it  down. 

And  when  at  home  you  read  or  knit,  — 

Who'll  know  it  was  my  hands  that  blotted 
The  page  ?  —  or  all  your  needles  knotted  ? 

When  in  your  rage  you  cry  a  bit : 
And  loud  I  laugh  at  it,  my  love, 
And  loud  I  laugh  at  it. 

The  secrets  that  you  say  in  prayer 

Right  so  I'll  hear :  and,  when  you  sing, 
The  name  you  speak ;  and  whispering 

I'll  bend  and  kiss  your  mouth  and  hair, 
And  tell  you  I  am  there,  my  dear, 
And  tell  you  I  am  there. 

Would  it  were  true  what  people  say  !  — 

Would  I  could  find  that  elfin  seed  ! 

Then  should  I  win  your  love,  indeed, 
By  being  near  you  night  and  day  — 

There  is  no  other  wTay,  my  love, 

There  is  no  other  way. 


ii2  THE   SPELL 

Meantime  the  truth  in  this  is  said : 
It  is  my  soul  that  follows  you ; 
It  needs  no  fern  seed  in  the  shoe,  — 

While  in  the  heart  love  pulses  red, 
To  win  you  and  to  wed,  my  dear, 
To  win  you  and  to  wed. 


UNCERTAINTY 
"'He  cometh  not,'  she  said."  —  MARIANA 

IT  will  not  be  to-day  and  yet 

I  think  and  dream  it  will ;  and  let 

The  slow  uncertainty  devise 

So  many  sweet  excuses,  met 

With  the  old  doubt  in  hope's  disguise. 

The  panes  were  sweated  with  the  dawn ; 
Yet  through  their  dimness,  shriveled  drawn, 
The  aigret  of  one  princess-feather, 
One  monk's-hood  tuft  with  oilets  wan, 
I  glimpsed,  dead  in  the  slaying  weather. 

This  morning,  when  my  window's  chintz 
I  drew,  how  gray  the  day  was  !  —  Since 
I  saw  him,  yea,  all  days  are  gray  !  — 
I  gazed  out  on  my  dripping  quince, 
Defruited,  gnarled ;  then  turned  away 

To  weep,  but  did  not  weep :  but  felt 
A  colder  anguish  than  did  melt 
i  "3 


ii4  UNCERTAINTY 

About  the  tearful- visaged  year  !  — 
Then  flung  the  lattice  wide,  and  smelt 
The  autumn  sorrow :   Rotting  near 

The  rain-drenched  sunflowers  bent  and  bleached, 
Up  which  the  frost-nipped  gourd- vines  reached 
And  morning-glories,  seeded  o'er 
With  ashen  aiglets ;  whence  beseeched 
One  last  bloom,  frozen  to  the  core. 

The  podded  hollyhocks,  —  that  Fall 
Had  stripped  of  finery,  —  by  the  wall 
Rustled  their  tatters ;  dripped  and  dripped, 
The  fog  thick  on  them  :  near  them,  all 
The  tarnished,  haglike  zinnias  tipped. 

I  felt  the  death  and  loved  it :  yea, 
To  have  it  nearer,  sought  the  gray, 
Chill,  fading  garth.     Yet  could  not  weep, 
But  wandered  in  an  aimless  way, 
And  sighed  with  weariness  for  sleep. 

Mine  were  the  fog,  the  frosty  stalks ; 
The  weak  lights  on  the  leafy  walks ; 
The  shadows  shivering  with  the  cold ; 
The  breaking  heart ;  the  lonely  talks ; 
The  last,  dim,  ruined  marigold. 


UNCERTAINTY  115 

But  when  to-night  the  moon  swings  low  — 

A  great  marsh-marigold  of  glow  — 

And  all  my  garden  with  the  sea 

Moans,  then,  through  moon  and  mist,  I  know 

My  love  will  come  to  comfort  me., 


IN  THE  WOOD 

THE  waterfall,  deep  in  the  wood, 

Talked  drowsily  with  solitude, 

A  soft,  insistent  sound  of  foam, 

That  filled  with  sleep  the  forest's  dome, 

Where,  like  some  dream  of  dusk,  she  stood 

Accentuating  solitude. 

The  crickets'  tinkling  chips  of  sound 

Strewed  dim  the  twilight-twinkling  ground ; 

A  whippoorwill  began  to  cry, 

And  glimmering  through  the  sober  sky 

A  bat  went  on  its  drunken  round, 

Its  shadow  following  on  the  ground. 

Then  from  a  bush,  an  elder-copse, 
That  spiced  the  dark  with  musky  tops, 
What  seemed,  at  first,  a  shadow  came 
And  took  her  hand  and  spoke  her  name, 
And  kissed  her  where,  in  starry  drops, 
The  dew  orbed  on  the  elder-tops. 

The  glaucous  glow  of  fireflies 
Flickered  the  dusk ;  and  foxlike  eyes 
116 


IN  THE  WOOD  117 

Peered  from  the  shadows ;  and  the  hush 
Murmured  a  word  of  wind  and  rush 
Of  fluttering  waters,  fragrant  sighs, 
And  dreams  unseen  of  mortal  eyes. 

The  beetle  flung  its  burr  of  sound 

Against  the  hush  and  clung  there,  wound 

In  night's  deep  mane :  then,  in  a  tree, 

A  grig  began  deliberately 

To  file  the  stillness :  all  around 

A  wire  of  shrillness  seemed  unwound. 

I  looked  for  those  two  lovers  there ; 
His  ardent  eyes,  her  passionate  hair. 
The  moon  looked  down,  slow-climbing  wan 
Heaven's  slope  of  azure :  they  were  gone : 
But  where  they'd  passed  I  heard  the  air 
Sigh,  faint  with  sweetness  of  her  hair. 


SINCE  THEN 

I  FOUND  myself  among  the  trees 
What  time  the  reapers  ceased  to  reap ; 
And  in  the  sunflower-blooms  the  bees 
Huddled  brown  heads  and  went  to  sleep, 
Rocked  by  the  balsam-breathing  breeze. 

I  saw  the  red  fox  leave  his  lair, 
A  shaggy  shadow,  on  the  knoll ; 
And  tunneling  his  thoroughfare 
Beneath  the  soil,  I  watched  the  mole  — 
Stealth's  own  self  could  not  take  more  care. 

I  heard  the  death-moth  tick  and  stir, 
Slow-honeycombing  through  the  bark ; 
I  heard  the  cricket's  drowsy  chirr, 
And  one  lone  beetle  burr  the  dark  — 
The  sleeping  woodland  seemed  to  purr. 

And  then  the  moon  rose :  and  one  white 
Low  bough  of  blossoms  —  grown  almost 
Where,  ere  you  died,  'twas  our  delight 
To  meet,  —  dear  heart !  —  I  thought  your  ghost 
The  wood  is  haunted  since  that  night. 
118 


DUSK  IN  THE  WOODS 

THREE  miles  of  trees  it  is :  and  I 

Came  through  the  woods  that  waited,  dumb, 

For  the  cool  summer  dusk  to  come ; 

And  lingered  there  to  watch  the  sky 

Up  which  the  gradual  splendor  clomb. 

A  tree-toad  quavered  in  a  tree ; 
And  then  a  sudden  whippoorwill 
Called  overhead,  so  wildly  shrill 
The  sleeping  wood,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Cried  out  and  then  again  was  still. 

Then  through  dark  boughs  its  stealthy  flight 
An  owl  took ;  and,  at  drowsy  strife, 
The  cricket  tuned  its  faery  fife ; 
And  like  a  ghost-flower,  silent  white, 
The  wood-moth  glimmered  into  life. 

And  in  the  dead  wood  everywhere 
The  insects  ticked,  or  bored  below 
The  rotted  bark ;  and,  glow  on  glow, 
The  lambent  fireflies  here  and  there 
Lit  up  their  jack-o'-lantern  show. 
119 


120  DUSK  IN  THE  WOODS 

I  heard  a  vesper-sparrow  sing. 
Withdrawn,  it  seemed,  into  the  far 
Slow  sunset's  tranquil  cinnabar ; 
The  crimson,  softly  smoldering 
Behind  the  trees,  with  its  one  star. 

A  dog  barked :  and  down  ways  that  gleamed, 
Through  dew  and  clover,  faint  the  noise 
Of  cowbells  moved.     And  then  a  voice, 
That  sang  a-milking,  so  it  seemed, 
Made  glad  my  heart  as  some  glad  boy's. 

And  then  the  lane :  and,  full  in  view, 
A  farmhouse  with  its  rose-grown  gate, 
And  honeysuckle  paths,  await 
For  night,  the  moon,  and  love  and  you  — 
These  are  the  things  that  made  me  late. 


PATHS 


WHAT  words  of  mine  can  tell  the  spell 
Of  garden  ways  I  know  so  well  ?  — 
The  path  that  takes  me  in  the  spring 
Past  quince-trees  where  the  bluebirds  sing, 
And  peonies  are  blossoming, 
Unto  a  porch,  wistaria-hung, 
Around  whose  steps  May-lilies  blow, 
A  fair  girl  reaches  down  among, 
Her  arm  more  white  than  their  sweet  snow. 

II 

What  words  of  mine  can  tell  the  spell 
Of  garden  ways  I  know  so  well  ?  — 
Another  path  that  leads  me,  when 
The  summer  time  is  here  again, 
Past  hollyhocks  that  shame  the  west 
When  the  red  sun  has  sunk  to  rest ; 
To  roses  bowering  a  nest, 
A  lattice,  'neath  which  mignonette 
And  deep  geraniums  surge  and  sough, 
Where,  in  the  twilight,  starless  yet, 
A  fair  girl's  eyes  are  stars  enough, 

121 


122  PATHS 


III 

What  words  of  mine  can  tell  the  spell 
Of  garden  ways  I  know  so  well  ?  — 
A  path  that  takes  me,  when  the  days 
Of  autumn  wrap  the  hills  in  haze, 
Beneath  the  pippin-pelting  tree, 
'Mid  flitting  butterfly  and  bee ; 
Unto  a  door  where,  fiery, 
The  creeper  climbs ;  and,  garnet-hued, 
The  cock's-comb  and  the  dahlia  flare, 
And  in  the  door,  where  shades  intrude, 
Gleams  bright  a  fair  girl's  sunbeam  hair. 

IV 

What  words  of  mine  can  tell  the  spell 

Of  garden  ways  I  know  so  well  ?  — 

A  path  that  brings  me  through  the  frost 

Of  winter,  when  the  moon  is  tossed 

In  clouds ;  beneath  great  cedars,  weak 

With  shaggy  snow ;  past  shrubs  blown  bleak 

With  shivering  leaves ;  to  eaves  that  leak 

The  tattered  ice,  whereunder  is 

A  fire-flickering  window-space ; 

And  in  the  light,  with  lips  to  kiss, 

A  fair  girl's  welcome-smiling  face. 


THE  QUEST 


FIRST  I  asked  the  honeybee, 

Busy  in  the  balmy  bowers ; 
Saying,  "  Sweetheart,  tell  it  me : 
Have  you  seen  her,  honeybee  ? 

She  is  cousin  to  the  flowers  — 
All  the  sweetness  of  the  south 
In  her  wild-rose  face  and  mouth." 
But  the  bee  passed  silently. 

II 

Then  I  asked  the  forest  bird, 

Warbling  by  the  woodland  waters ; 

Saying,  "Dearest,  have  you  heard? 

Have  you  heard  her,  forest  bird  ? 
She  is  one  of  music's  daughters  — 

Never  song  so  sweet  by  half 

As  the  music  of  her  laugh." 
But  the  bird  said  not  a  word. 
123 


i24  THE  QUEST 

III 

Next  I  asked  the  evening  sky, 
Hanging  out  its  lamps  of  fire ; 

Saying,  "Loved  one,  passed  she  by? 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  evening  sky  ! 
She,  the  star  of  my  desire  — 

Sister  whom  the  Pleiads  lost, 

And  my  soul's  high  pentecost." 
But  the  sky  made  no  reply. 

IV 

Where  is  she  ?  ah,  where  is  she  ? 

She  to  whom  both  love  and  duty 
Bind  me,  yea,  immortally.  — 
Where  is  she  ?  ah,  where  is  she  ? 

Symbol  of  the  Earth-Soul's  beauty. 
I  have  lost  her.     Help  my  heart 
Find  her  !  her,  who  is  a  part 

Of  the  pagan  soul  of  me. 


THE   GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 

NOT  while  I  live  may  I  forget 
That  garden  which  my  spirit  trod  ! 
Where  dreams  were  flowers,  wild  and  wet, 
And  beautiful  as  God. 

Not  while  I  breathe,  awake,  adream, 
Shall  live  again  for  me  those  hours, 
When,  in  its  mystery  and  gleam, 
I  met  her  'mid  the  flowers. 

Eyes,  talismanic  heliotrope, 
Beneath  mesmeric  lashes,  where 
The  sorceries  of  love  and  hope 
Had  made  a  shining  lair. 

And  daydawn  brows,  whereover  hung 
The  twilight  of  dark  locks :  wild  birds, 
Her  lips,  that  spoke  the  rose's  tongue 
Of  fragrance-voweled  words. 

I  will  not  tell  of  cheeks  and  chin, 
That  held  me  as  sweet  language  holds ; 
Nor  of  the  eloquence  within 
Her  breasts'  twin-mooned  molds. 
125 


126  THE   GARDEN   OF   DREAMS 

Nor  of  her  body's  languorous 

Wind-grace,  that  glanced  like  starlight  through 

Her  clinging  robe's  diaphanous 

Web  of  the  mist  and  dew. 

There  is  no  star  so  pure  and  high 
As  was  her  look ;  no  fragrance  such 
As  her  soft  presence ;  and  no  sigh 
Of  music  like  her  touch. 

Not  while  I  live  may  I  forget 
That  garden  of  dim  dreams,  where  I 
And  Beauty  born  of  Music  met, 
Whose  spirit  passed  me  by. 


THE  PATH  TO  FAERY 


WHEN  dusk  falls  cool  as  a  rained-on  rose, 

And  a  tawny  tower  the  twilight  shows, 

With  the  crescent  moon,  the  silver  moon,  the  curved 

new  moon  in  a  space  that  glows, 
A  turret  window  that  grows  alight ; 
There  is  a  path  that  my  Fancy  knows, 
A  glimmering,  shimmering  path  of  night, 
That  far  as  the  Land  of  Faery  goes. 

II 

And  I  follow  the  path,  as  Fancy  leads, 

Over  the  mountains,  into  the  meads, 

Where  the  firefly  cities,  the  glowworm  cities,  the  faery 

cities  are  strung  like  beads, 
Each  city  a  twinkling  star : 
And  I  live  a  life  of  valorous  deeds, 
And  march  with  the  Faery  King  to  war, 
And  ride  with  his  knights  on  milk-white  steeds. 

Ill 

Or  it's  there  in  the  whirl  of  their  life  I  sit, 
Or  dance  in  their  houses  with  starlight  lit, 

127 


128  THE   PATH  TO   FAERY 

Their  blossom  houses,  their  flower  houses,  their  elfin 

houses,  of  fern  leaves  knit, 
With  fronded  spires  and  domes : 
And  there  it  is  that  my  lost  dreams  flit, 
And  the  ghost  of  my  childhood,  smiling,  roams 
With  the  faery  children  so  dear  to  it. 

IV 

And  it's  there  I  hear  that  they  all  come  true, 

The  faery  stories,  whatever  they  do  — 

Elf  and  goblin,  dear  elf  and  goblin,  loved  elf  and  goblin, 

and  all  the  crew 

Of  witch  and  wizard  and  gnome  and  fay, 
And  prince  and  princess,  that  wander  through 
The  storybooks  we  have  put  away, 
The  faerytales  that  we  loved  and  knew. 

V 

The  face  of  Adventure  lures  you  there, 

And  the  eyes  of  Danger  bid  you  dare, 

While  ever  the  bugles,  the  silver  bugles,  the  far-off 

bugles  of  Elfland  blare, 
The  faery  trumpets  co  battle  blow ; 
And  you  feel  their  thrill  in  your  heart  and  hair, 
And  you  fain  would  follow  and  mount  and  go 
And  march  with  the  Faeries  anywhere. 


THE   PATH  TO   FAERY  129 

VI 

And  she  —  she  rides  at  your  side  again, 
Your  little  sweetheart  whose  age  is  ten : 
She  is  the  princess,  the  faery  princess,  the  princess  fair 

that  you  worshiped  when 
You  were  a  prince  in  a  faerytale ; 
And  you  do  great  deeds  as  you  did  them  then, 
With  your  magic  spear,  and  enchanted  mail, 
Braving  the  dragon  in  his  den. 

VII 

And  you  ask  again,  —  "Oh,  where  shall  we  ride, 

Now  that  the  monster  is  slain,  my  bride  ?  "  — 

"Back  to  the  cities,  the  firefly  cities,  the  glowworm 

cities  where  we  can  hide, 
The  beautiful  cities  of  Faeryland. 
And  the  light  of  my  eyes  shall  be  your  guide, 
The  light  of  my  eyes  and  my  snow-white  hand  — 
And  there  forever  we  two  will  abide." 


THERE  ARE  FAERIES 

I 

THERE  are  faeries,  bright  of  eye, 

Who  the  wildflowers'  warders  are : 
Ouphes,  that  chase  the  firefly ; 

Elves,  that  ride  the  shooting-star : 
Fays,  who  in  a  cobweb  lie, 

Swinging  on  a  moonbeam  bar ; 
Or  who  harness  bumblebees, 
Grumbling  on  the  clover  leas, 
To  a  blossom  or  a  breeze  — 

That's  their  faery  car. 
If  you  care,  you  too  may  see 
There  are  faeries.  —  Verily, 

There  are  faeries. 

II 

There  are  faeries.    I  could  swear 
I  have  seen  them  busy,  where 
Roses  loose  their  scented  hair, 
In  the  moonlight  weaving,  weaving, 
130 


THERE   ARE   FAERIES  131 

Out  of  starlight  and  the  dew, 
Glinting  gown  and  shimmering  shoe ; 
Or,  within  a  glowworm  lair, 

From  the  dark  earth  slowly  heaving 
Mushrooms  whiter  than  the  moon, 
On  whose  tops  they  sit  and  croon, 
With  their  grig-like  mandolins, 
To  fair  faery  ladykins, 
Leaning  from  the  windowsill 
Of  a  rose  or  daffodil, 
Listening  to  their  serenade 
All  of  cricket-music  made. 
Follow  me,  oh,  follow  me  ! 
Ho  !  away  to  Faerie  ! 
Where  your  eyes  like  mine  may  see 
There  are  faeries.  —  Verily, 

There  are  faeries. 


Ill 

There  are  faeries.     Elves  that  swing 
In  a  wild  and  rainbow  ring 
Through  the  air ;  or  mount  the  wing 
Of  a  bat  to  courier  news 
To  the  faery  King  and  Queen : 
Fays,  who  stretch  the  gossamers 
On  which  twilight  hangs  the  dews ; 


132  THERE   ARE   FAERIES 

Who,  within  the  moonlight  sheen, 
Whisper  dimly  in  the  ears 
Of  the  flowers  words  so  sweet 
That  their  hearts  are  turned  to  musk 
And  to  honey ;  things  that  beat 
In  their  veins  of  gold  and  blue : 
Ouphes,  that  shepherd  moths  of  dusk 
Soft  of  wing  and  gray  of  hue  — 
Forth  to  pasture  on  the  dew. 

IV 

There  are  faeries ;  verily ; 

Verily : 
For  the  old  owl  in  the  tree, 

Hollow  tree, 
He  who  maketh  melody 
For  them  tripping  merrily, 

Told  it  me. 
There  are  faeries.  —  Verily, 

There  are  faeries. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FOREST  SPRING 

OVER  the  rocks  she  trails  her  locks, 

Her  mossy  locks  that  drip,  drip,  drip : 

Her  sparkling  eyes  smile  at  the  skies 

In  friendship-wise  and  fellowship  : 

While  the  gleam  and  glance  of  her  countenance 

Lull  into  trance  the  woodland  places, 

As  over  the  rocks  she  trails  her  locks, 

Her  dripping  locks  that  the  long  fern  graces. 

She  pours  clear  ooze  from  her  heart's  cool  cruse, 

Its  crystal  cruse  that  drips,  drips,  drips : 

And  all  the  day  its  limpid  spray 

Is  heard  to  play  from  her  finger  tips : 

And  the  slight,  soft  sound  makes  haunted  ground 

Of  the  woods  around  that  the  sunlight  laces, 

As  she  pours  clear  ooze  from  her  heart's  cool  cruse, 

Its  dripping  cruse  that  no  man  traces. 

She  swims  and  swims  with  glimmering  limbs, 
With  lucid  limbs  that  drip,  drip,  drip : 
Where  beechen  boughs  build  a  leafy  house, 
Where  her  eyes  may  drowse  or  her  beauty  trip : 


134     THE   SPIRIT   OF  THE   FOREST   SPRING 

t 

And  the  liquid  beat  of  her  rippling  feet 
Makes  three  times  sweet  the  forest  mazes, 
As  she  swims  and  swims  with  glimmering  limbs, 
With  dripping  limbs  through  the  twilight  hazes. 

Then  wrapped  in  deeps  of  the  wild  she  sleeps, 
She  whispering  sleeps  and  drips,  drips,  drips : 
Where  moon  and  mist  wreathe  neck  and  wrist, 
And,  starry-whist,  through  the  dark  she  slips : 
While  the  heavenly  dream  of  her  soul  makes  gleam 
The  falls  that  stream  and  the  foam  that  races, 
As  wrapped  in  the  deeps  of  the  wild  she  sleeps, 
She  dripping  sleeps  or  starward  gazes. 


IN  A  GARDEN 

THE  pink  rose  drops  its  petals  on 
The  moonlit  lawn,  the  moonlit  lawn ; 
The  moon,  like  some  wide  rose  of  white, 
Drops  down  the  summer  night. 
No  rose  there  is 
As  sweet  as  this  — 
Thy  mouth,  that  greets  me  with  a  kiss. 

The  lattice  of  thy  casement  twines 
With  jasmine  vines,  with  jasmine  vines ; 
The  stars,  like  jasmine  blossoms,  lie 
About  the  glimmering  sky. 
No  jasmine  tress 
Can  so  caress 
Like  thy  white  arms'  soft  loveliness. 

About  thy  door  magnolia  blooms 
Make  sweet  the  glooms,  make  sweet  the  glooms ; 
A  moon-magnolia  is  the  dusk 
Closed  in  a  dewy  husk. 
However  much, 
No  bloom  gives  such 
Soft  fragrance  as  thy  bosom's  touch. 
135 


136  IN  A   GARDEN 

The  flowers  blooming  now  will  pass, 
And  strew  the  grass,  and  strew  the  grass ; 
The  night,  like  some  frail  flower,  dawn 
Will  soon  make  gray  and  wan. 

Still,  still  above, 

The  flower  of 
True  love  shall  live  forever,  Love. 


IN  THE  LANE 

WHEN  the  hornet  hangs  in  the  hollyhock, 
And  the  brown  bee  drones  i'  the  rose ; 

And  the  west  is  a  red-streaked  four-o'clock, 
And  summer  is  near  its  close  — 

It's  oh,  for  the  gate  and  the  locust  lane, 

And  dusk  and  dew  and  home  again  ! 

When  the  katydid  sings  and  the  cricket  cries, 
And  ghosts  of  the  mists  ascend ; 

And  the  evening  star  is  a  lamp  i'  the  skies, 
And  summer  is  near  its  end  — 

It's  oh,  for  the  fence  and  the  leafy  lane, 

And  the  twilight  peace  and  the  tryst  again  ! 

When  the  owlet  hoots  in  the  dogwood  tree, 
That  leans  to  the  rippling  Run ; 

And  the  wind  is  a  wildwood  melody, 
And  summer  is  almost  done  — 

It's  oh,  for  the  bridge  and  the  bramble  lane, 

And  the  fragrant  hush  and  her  hands  again  ! 

When  fields  smell  sweet  with  the  dewy  hay, 
And  woods  are  cool  and  wan, 
137 


138  IN  THE   LANE 

And  a  path  for  dreams  is  the  Milky  Way, 

And  summer  is  nearly  gone  — 
It's  oh,  for  the  rock  and  the  woodland  lane, 
And  the  silence  and  stars  and  her  lips  again ! 

When  the  weight  of  the  apples  breaks  down  the 
boughs, 

And  muskmelons  split  with  sweet ; 
And  the  moon  is  a  light  in  Heaven's  house, 

And  summer  has  spent  its  heat  — 
It's  oh,  for  the  lane,  the  trysting  lane, 
The  deep-mooned  night  and  her  love  again  ! 


THE  WINDOW  ON  THE  HILL 

AMONG  the  fields  the  camomile 
Seems  blown  mist  in  the  lightning's  glare : 
Cool,  rainy  odors  drench  the  air ; 
Night  speaks  above ;  the  angry  smile 
Of  storm  within  her  stare. 

The  way  that  I  shall  take  to-night 
Is  through  the  wood  whose  branches  fill 
The  road  with  double  darkness,  till, 
Between  the  boughs,  a  window's  light 
Shines  out  upon  the  hill. 

The  fence ;  and  then  the  path  that  goes 
Around  a  trailer- tangled  rock, 
Through  puckered  pink  and  hollyhock, 
Unto  a  latch -gate's  unkempt  rose, 
And  door  whereat  I  knock. 

Bright  on  the  oldtime  flower  place 
The  lamp  streams  through  the  foggy  pane ; 
The  door  is  opened  to  the  rain : 
And  in  the  door  —  her  happy  face 
And  outstretched  arms  again. 
139 


THE  PICTURE 

ABOVE  her,  pearl  and  rose  the  heavens  lay : 
Around  her,  flowers  flattered  earth  with  gold, 
Or  down  the  path  in  insolence  held  sway  — 
Like  cavaliers  who  ride  the  king's  highway  — 
Scarlet  and  buff,  within  a  garden  old. 

Beyond  the  hills,  faint-heard  through  belts  of  wood, 
Bells,  Sabbath-sweet,  swooned  from  some  far-off  town 
Gamboge  and  gold,  broad  sunset  colors  strewed 
The  purple  west  as  if,  with  God  imbued, 
Her  mighty  palette  Nature  there  laid  down. 

Amid  such  flowers,  underneath  such  skies, 

Embodying  all  life  knows  of  sweet  and  fair, 

She  stood ;  love's  dreams  in  girlhood's  face  and  eyes, 

Fair  as  a  star  that  comes  to  emphasize 

The  mingled  beauty  of  the  earth  and  air. 

Behind  her,  seen  through  vines  and  orchard  trees, 
Gray  with  its  twinkling  windows  —  like  the  face 
Of  calm  old  age  that  sits  and  dreams  at  ease  — 
Porched  with  old  roses,  haunts  of  honeybees, 
The  homestead  loomed  within  a  lilied  space. 

140 


THE   PICTURE  141 

For  whom  she  waited  in  the  afterglow, 
Star-eyed  and  golden  'mid  the  poppy  and  rose, 
I  do  not  know ;  I  do  not  care  to  know,  — 
It  is  enough  I  keep  her  picture  so, 
Hung  up,  like  poetry,  in  my  life's  dull  prose. 

A  fragrant  picture,  where  I  still  may  find 
Her  face  untouched  of  sorrow  or  regret, 
Unspoiled  of  contact ;  ever  young  and  kind ; 
The  spiritual  sweetheart  of  my  soul  and  mind, 
She  had  not  been,  perhaps,  if  we  had  met. 


MOLY 

WHEN  by  the  wall  the  tiger-flower  swings 
A  head  of  sultry  slumber  and  aroma ; 

And  by  the  path,  whereon  the  blown  rose  flings 
Its  obsolete  beauty,  the  long  lilies  foam  a 

White  place  of  perfume,  like  a  beautiful  breast  — 

Between  the  pansy  fire  of  the  west, 

And  poppy  mist  of  moonrise  in  the  east, 
This  heartache  will  have  ceased. 

The  witchcraft  of  soft  music  and  sweet  sleep  — 

Let  it  beguile  the  burthen  from  my  spirit, 
And  white  dreams  reap  me  as  strong  reapers  reap 

The  ripened  grain  and  full  blown  blossom  near  it ; 
Let  me  behold  how  gladness  gives  the  whole 
The  transformed  countenance  of  my  own  soul  — 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  risen  moon 
Let  sorrow  vanish  soon. 

And  these  things  then  shall  keep  me  company : 
The  elfins  of  the  dew ;  the  spirit  of  laughter 

Who  haunts  the  wind ;  the  god  of  melody 

Who  sings  within  the  stream,  that  reaches  after 
142 


MOLY  143 

The  flow'rs  that  rock  themselves  to  his  caress : 
These  of  themselves  shall  shape  my  happiness, 
Whose  visible  presence  I  shall  lean  upon, 
Feeling  that  care  is  gone. 

Forgetting  how  the  cankered  flower  must  die ; 

The  worm-pierced  fruit  fall,  sicklied  to  its  syrup ; 
How  joy,  begotten  'twixt  a  sigh  and  sigh, 

Waits  with  one  foot  forever  in  the  stirrup,  — 
Remembering  how  within  the  hollow  lute 
Soft  music  sleeps  when  music's  voice  is  mute ; 
And  in  the  heart,  when  all  seems  black  despair, 

Hope  sits,  awaiting  there. 


POPPY  AND  MANDRAGORA 

LET  us  go  far  from  here  ! 
Here  there  is  sadness  in  the  early  year : 
Here  sorrow  waits  where  joy  went  laughing  late 
The  sicklied  face  of  heaven  hangs  like  hate 
Above  the  woodland  and  the  meadowland ; 
And  Spring  hath  taken  fire  in  her  hand 
Of  frost  and  made  a  dead  bloom  of  her  face, 
Which  was  a  flower  of  marvel  once  and  grace, 
And  sweet  serenity  and  stainless  glow. 

Delay  not.    Let  us  go. 


Let  us  go  far  away 
Into  the  sunrise  of  a  fairer  May : 
Where  all  the  nights  resign  them  to  the  moon, 
And  drug  their  souls  with  odor  and  soft  tune, 
And  tell  their  dreams  in  starlight :  where  the  hours 
Teach  immortality  with  fadeless  flowers ; 
And  all  the  day  the  bee  weights  down  the  bloom, 
And  all  the  night  the  moth  shakes  strange  perfume, 
Like  music,  from  the  flower-bells'  affluence. 

Let  us  go  far  from  hence. 
144 


POPPY  AND   MANDRAGORA  145 

Why  should  we  sit  and  weep, 
And  yearn  with  heavy  eyelids  still  to  sleep  ? 
Forever  hiding  from  our  hearts  the  hate,  — 
Death  within  death,  —  life  doth  accumulate, 
Like  winter  snows  along  the  barren  leas 
And  sterile  hills,  whereon  no  lover  sees 
The  crocus  limn  the  beautiful  in  flame ; 
Or  hyacinth  and  jonquil  write  the  name 
Of  Love  in  fire,  for  each  passer-by. 

Why  should  we  sit  and  sigh  ? 


We  will  not  stay  and  long, 
Here  where  our  souls  are  wasting  for  a  song ; 
Where  no  bird  sings ;  and,  dim  beneath  the  stars, 
No  silvery  water  strikes  melodious  bars ; 
And  in  the  rocks  and  forest-covered  hills 
No  quick-tongued  echo  from  her  grotto  fills 
With  eery  syllables  the  solitude  — 
The  vocal  image  of  the  voice  that  wooed  — 
She,  of  wild  sounds  the  airy  looking-glass. 

Our  souls  are  tired,  alas  ! 

What  should  we  say  to  her  ?  — 
To  Spring,  who  in  our  hearts  makes  no  sweet  stir : 
Who  looks  not  on  us  nor  gives  thought  unto : 
Too  busy  with  the  birth  of  flowers  and  dew, 


146  POPPY  AND   MANDRAGORA 

And  vague  gold  wings  within  the  chrysalis ; 
Or  Love,  who  will  not  miss  us ;  had  no  kiss 
To  give  your  soul  or  the  sad  soul  of  me, 
Who  bound  our  hearts  to  her  in  poesy, 
Long  since,  and  wear  her  badge  of  service  still.  — 
Have  we  not  served  our  fill  ? 

We  will  go  far  away. 

Song  will  not  care,  who  slays  our  souls  each  day 
With  the  dark  daggers  of  denying  eyes, 
And  lips  of  silence  !  .  .  .     Had  she  sighed  us  lies, 
Not  passionate,  yet  falsely  tremulous, 
And  lent  her  mouth  to  ours  in  mockery ;  thus 
Smiled  from  calm  eyes  as  if  appreciative ; 
Then,  then  our  love  had  taught  itself  to  live 
Feeding  itself  on  hope,  and  recompense. 

But  no  !  —  So  let  us  hence. 

So  be  the  Bible  shut 
Of  all  her  Beauty,  and  her  wisdom  but 
A  clasp  for  memory !     We  will  not  seek 
The  light  that  came  not  when  the  soul  was  weak 
With  longing,  and  the  darkness  gave  no  sign 
Of  star-born  comfort.     Nay  !  why  kneel  and  whine 
Sad  psalms  of  patience  and  hosannas  of 
Old  hope  and  dreary  canticles  of  love  ?  — 
Let  us  depart,  since,  as  we  long  supposed, 

For  us  God's  book  was  closed. 


A    ROAD    SONG 

IT'S  —  Oh,  for  the  hills,  where  the  wind's  some  one 
With  a  vagabond  foot  that  follows  ! 
And  a  cheer-up  hand  that  he  claps  upon 
Your  arm  with  the  hearty  words,  "Come  on  ! 
We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  hollows, 

My  heart ! 
We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  hollows." 

It's  —  Oh,  for  the  songs,  where  the  hope's  some  one 

With  a  renegade  foot  that  doubles  ! 

And  a  jolly  lilt  that  he  flings  to  the  sun 

As  he  turns  with  the  friendly  laugh,  "Come  on  ! 

We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  troubles, 

My  heart ! 
We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  troubles  !" 


PHANTOMS 

THIS  was  her  home ;  one  mossy  gable  thrust 
Above  the  cedars  and  the  locust  trees : 

This  was  her  home,  whose  beauty  now  is  dust, 
A  lonely  memory  for  melodies 
The  wild  birds  sing,  the  wild  birds  and  the  bees. 

Here  every  evening  is  a  prayer :  no  boast 

Or  ruin  of  sunset  makes  the  wan  world  wroth ; 

Here,  through  the  twilight,  like  a  pale  flower's  ghost, 
A  drowsy  flutter,  flies  the  tiger-moth ; 
And  dusk  spreads  darkness  like  a  dewy  cloth. 

In  vagabond  velvet,  on  the  placid  day, 
A  stain  of  crimson,  lolls  the  butterfly ; 

The  south  wind  sows  with  ripple  and  with  ray 
The  pleasant  waters ;  and  the  gentle  sky 
Looks  on  the  homestead  like  a  quiet  eye. 

Their  melancholy  quaver,  lone  and  low, 

When  day  is  done,  the  gray  tree-toads  repeat : 

The  whippoorwills,  far  in  the  afterglow, 

Complain  to  silence :  and  the  lightnings  beat, 
In  one  still  cloud,  glimmers  of  golden  heat. 
148 


PHANTOMS  149 

He  comes  not  yet :  not  till  the  dusk  is  dead, 
And  all  the  western  glow  is  far  withdrawn ; 

Not  till,  —  a  sleepy  mouth  love's  kiss  makes  red,  — 
The  baby  bud  opes  in  a  rosy  yawn, 
Breathing  sweet  guesses  at  the  dreamed-of  dawn. 

When  in  the  shadows,  like  a  rain  of  gold, 
The  fireflies  stream  steadily ;  and  bright 

Along  the  moss  the  glowworm,  as  of  old, 
A  crawling  sparkle  —  like  a  crooked  light 
In  smoldering  vellum  —  scrawls  a  square  of  night,  — 

Then  will  he  come ;  and  she  will  lean  to  him,  — 

She,  —  the  sweet  phantom,  —  memory  of  that  place,  — 

Between  the  starlight  and  his  eyes ;  so  dim 
With  suave  control  and  soul-compelling  grace, 
He  cannot  help  but  speak  her,  face  to  face. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

I 

THE  hills  are  full  of  prophecies 

And  ancient  voices  of  the  dead ; 

Of  hidden  shapes  that  no  man  sees, 

Pale,  visionary  presences, 

That  speak  the  things  no  tongue  hath  said, 

No  mind  hath  thought,  no  eye  hath  read. 

The  streams  are  full  of  oracles, 

And  momentary  whisperings ; 

An  immaterial  beauty  swells 

Its  breezy  silver  o'er  the  shells 

With  wordless  speech  that  sings  and  sings 

The  message  of  diviner  things. 

No  indeterminable  thought  is  theirs, 
The  stars',  the  sunsets'  and  the  flowers'; 
Whose  inexpressible  speech  declares 
Th'  immortal  Beautiful,  who  shares 
This  mortal  riddle  which  is  ours, 
Beyond  the  forward-flying  hours. 
150 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     151 

II 

It  holds  and  beckons  in  the  streams ; 

It  lures  and  touches  us  in  all 

The  flowers  of  the  golden  fall  — 

The  mystic  essence  of  our  dreams : 

A  nymph  blows  bubbling  music  where 

Faint  water  ripples  down  the  rocks ; 

A  faun  goes  dancing  hoiden  locks, 

And  piping  a  Pandean  air, 

Through  trees  the  instant  wind  shakes  bare. 

Our  dreams  are  never  otherwise 
Than  real  when  they  hold  us  so; 
We  in  some  future  life  shall  know 
Them  parts  of  it  and  recognize 
Them  as  ideal  substance,  whence 
The  actual  is  —  (as  flowers  and  trees, 
From  color  sources  no  one  sees, 
Draw  dyes,  the  substance  of  a  sense)  — 
Material  with  intelligence. 

Ill 

What  intimations  made  them  wise, 
The  mournful  pine,  the  pleasant  beech  ? 
What  strange  and  esoteric  speech  ?  — 
(Communicated  from  the  skies 


152     INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

In  runic  whispers)  —  that  invokes 
The  boles  that  sleep  within  the  seeds, 
And  out  of  narrow  darkness  leads 
The  vast  assemblies  of  the  oaks. 

Within  his  knowledge,  what  one  reads 

The  poems  written  by  the  flowers  ? 

The  sermons,  past  all  speech  of  ours, 

Preached  by  the  gospel  of  the  weeds  ?  — 

O  eloquence  of  coloring  ! 

O  thoughts  of  syllabled  perfume  ! 

O  beauty  uttered  into  bloom  ! 

Teach  me  your  language  !  let  me  sing  ! 

IV 

Along  my  mind  flies  suddenly 

A  wildwood  thought  that  will  not  die ; 

That  makes  me  brother  to  the  bee, 

And  cousin  to  the  butterfly : 

A  thought,  such  as  gives  perfume  to 

The  blushes  of  the  bramble-rose, 

And,  fixed  in  quivering  crystal,  glows 

A  captive  in  the  prismed  dew. 

It  leads  the  feet  no  certain  way ; 
No  frequent  path  of  human  feet : 
Its  wild  eyes  follow  me  all  day ; 
All  day  I  hear  its  wild  heart  beat : 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL     153 

And  in  the  night  it  sings  and  sighs 
The  songs  the  winds  and  waters  love ; 
Its  wild  heart  lying  tranced  above, 
And  tranced  the  wildness  of  its  eyes. 


Oh,  joy,  to  walk  the  way  that  goes 
Through  woods  of  sweet-gum  and  of  beech  ! 
Where,  like  a  ruby  left  in  reach, 
The  berry  of  the  dogwood  glows  : 
Or  where  the  bristling  hillsides  mass, 
'Twixt  belts  of  tawny  sassafras, 
Brown  shocks  of  corn  in  wigwam  rows ! 

Where,  in  the  hazy  morning,  runs 
The  stony  branch  that  pools  and  drips, 
The  red-haws  and  the  wild-rose  hips 
Are  strewn  like  pebbles ;  and  the  sun's 
Own  gold  seems  captured  by  the  weeds ; 
To  see,  through  scintillating  seeds, 
The  hunters  steal  with  glimmering  guns  ! 

Oh,  joy,  to  go  the  path  which  lies 
Through  woodlands  where  the  trees  are  tall ! 
Beneath  the  misty  moon  of  fall, 
Whose  ghostly  girdle  prophesies 


154    INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

A  morn  wind-swept  and  gray  with  rain ; 
When,  o'er  the  lonely,  leaf-blown  lane, 
The  night-hawk  like  a  dead  leaf  flies  ! 

To  stand  within  the  dewy  ring 

Where  pale  death  smites  the  boneset  blooms, 

And  everlasting's  flowers,  and  plumes 

Of  mint,  with  aromatic  wing  ! 

And  hear  the  creek,  —  whose  sobbing  seems 

A  wild-man  murmuring  in  his  dreams,  — 

And  insect  violins  that  sing. 

Or  where  the  dim  persimmon  tree 
Rains  on  the  path  its  frosty  fruit, 
And  in  the  oak  the  owl  doth  hoot, 
Beneath  the  moon  and  mist,  to  see 
The  outcast  Year  go,  —  Hagar-wise,  — 
With  far-off,  melancholy  eyes, 
And  lips  that  sigh  for  sympathy. 

VI 

Towards  evening,  where  the  sweet-gum  flung 

Its  thorny  balls  among  the  weeds, 

And  where  the  milkweed's  sleepy  seeds,  — 

A  faery  Feast  of  Lanterns,  —  swung ; 

The  cricket  tuned  a  plaintive  lyre, 

And  o'er  the  hills  the  sunset  hung 

A  purple  parchment  scrawled  with  fire. 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     155 

From  silver-blue  to  amethyst 

The  shadows  deepened  in  the  vale ; 

And  belt  by  belt  the  pearly-pale 

Aladdin  fabric  of  the  mist 

Built  up  its  exhalation  far ; 

A  jewel  on  an  Afrit's  wrist, 

One  star  gemmed  sunset's  cinnabar. 

Then  night  drew  near,  as  when,  alone, 

The  heart  and  soul  grow  intimate ; 

And  on  the  hills  the  twilight  sate 

With  shadows,  whose  wild  robes  were  sown 

With  dreams  and  whispers ;  —  dreams,  that  led 

The  heart  once  with  love's  monotone, 

And  memories  of  the  living-dead. 

VII 

All  night  the  rain-gusts  shook  the  leaves 

Around  my  window ;  and  the  blast 

Rumbled  the  flickering  flue,  and  fast 

The  storm  streamed  from  the  dripping  eaves. 

As  if  —  'neath  skies  gone  mad  with  fear  — - 

The  witches'  Sabboth  galloped  past, 

The  forests  leapt  like  startled  deer. 

All  night  I  heard  the  sweeping  sleet ; 
And  when  the  morning  came,  as  slow 


156    INTIMATIONS   OF   THE   BEAUTIFUL 

As  wan  affliction,  with  the  woe 
Of  all  the  world  dragged  at  her  feet, 
No  spear  of  purple  shattered  through 
The  dark  gray  of  the  east ;  no  bow 
Of  gold  shot  arrows  swift  and  blue. 

But  rain,  that  whipped  the  windows ;  filled 
The  spouts  with  rushings ;   and  around 
The  garden  stamped,  and  sowed  the  ground 
With  limbs  and  leaves ;  the  wood-pool  filled 
With  overgurgling.  —  Bleak  and  cold 
The  fields  looked,  where  the  footpath  wound 
Through  teasel  and  bur-marigold. 

Yet  there's  a  kindness  in  such  days 

Of  gloom,  that  doth  console  regret 

With  sympathy  of  tears,  which  wet 

Old  eyes  that  watch  the  back-log  blaze.  — 

A  kindness,  alien  to  the  deep 

Glad  blue  of  sunny  days  that  let 

No  thought  in  of  the  lives  that  weep. 

VIII 

This  dawn,  through  which  the  Autumn  glowers, 
As  might  a  face  within  our  sleep, 
With  stone-gray  eyes  that  weep  and  weep, 
And  wet  brows  bound  with  sodden  flowers,  — 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     157 

Is  sunset  to  some  sister  land ; 

A  land  of  ruins  and  of  palms ; 

Rich  sunset,  crimson  with  long  calms,  — 

Whose  burning  belt  low  mountains  bar,  — 

That  sees  some  brown  Rebecca  stand 

Beside  a  well  the  camel-band 

Winds  down  to  'neath  the  evening  star. 

O  sunset,  sister  to  this  dawn  ! 

O  dawn,  whose  face  is  turned  away  ! 

Who  gazest  not  upon  this  day, 

But  back  upon  the  day  that's  gone  ! 

Enamored  so  of  loveliness, 

The  retrospect  of  what  thou  wast, 

Oh,  to  thyself  the  present  trust ! 

And  as  thy  past  be  beautiful 

WTith  hues,  that  never  can  grow  less  ! 

Waiting  thy  pleasure  to  express 

New  beauty  lest  the  world  grow  dull. 

IX 

Down  in  the  woods  a  sorcerer, 
Out  of  rank  rain  and  death,  distills,  — 
Through  chill  alembics  of  the  air,  — 
Aromas  that  brood  everywhere 
Among  the  whisper-haunted  hills  : 
The  bitter  myrrh  of  dead  leaves  fills 


158     INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

Wet  valleys  (where  the  gaunt  weeds  bleach) 

With  rainy  scents  of  wood-decay ;  — 

As  if  a  spirit  all  the  day 

Sat  breathing  softly  'neath  the  beech. 

With  other  eyes  I  see  her  flit, 
The  wood-witch  of  the  wild  perfumes, 
Among  her  elfin  owls,  —  that  sit, 
A  drowsy  white,  in  crescent-lit 
Dim  glens  of  opalescent  glooms :  — 
Where,  for  her  magic,  buds  and  blooms 
Mysterious  perfumes,  while  she  stands, 
A  thornlike  shadow,  summoning 
The  sleepy  odors,  that  take  wing 
Like  bubbles  from  her  dewy  hands. 


X 

Among  the  woods  they  call  to  me  - 

The  lights  that  haunt  the  wood  and  stream ; 

Voices  of  such  white  ecstasy 

As  moves  with  hushed  lips  through  a  dream 

They  stand  in  auraed  radiances, 

Or  flash  with  nimbused  limbs  across 

Their  golden  shadows  on  the  moss, 

Or  slip  in  silver  through  the  trees. 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     159 

What  love  can  give  the  heart  in  me 
More  hope  and  exaltation  than 
The  hand  of  light  that  tips  the  tree 
And  beckons  far  from  marts  of  man  ? 
That  reaches  foamy  fingers  through 
The  broken  ripple,  and  replies 
With  sparkling  speech  of  lips  and  eyes 
To  souls  who  seek  and  still  pursue. 


XI 

Give  me  the  streams,  that  counterfeit 
The  twilight  of  autumnal  skies ; 
The  shadowy,  silent  waters,  lit 
With  fire  like  a  woman's  eyes  ! 
Slow  waters  that,  in  autumn,  glass 
The  scarlet-strewn  and  golden  grass, 
And  drink  the  sunset's  tawny  dyes. 


Give  me  the  pools,  that  lie  among 
The  centuried  forests  !  give  me  those, 
Deep,  dim,  and  sad  as  darkness  hung 
Beneath  the  sunset's  somber  rose : 
Still  pools,  in  whose  vague  mirrors  look 
Like  ragged  gypsies  round  a  book 
Of  magic  —  trees  in  wild  repose. 


160    INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

No  quiet  thing,  or  innocent, 
Of  water,  earth,  or  air  shall  please 
My  soul  now :  but  the  violent 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  trees : 
The  fierce,  the  splendid,  and  intense, 
That  love  matures  in  innocence, 
Like  mighty  music,  give  me  these  ! 

XII 

When  thorn-tree  copses  still  were  bare 
And  black  along  the  turbid  brook ; 
When  catkined  willows  blurred  and  shook 
Great  tawny  tangles  in  the  air ; 
In  bottomlands,  the  first  thaw  makes 
An  oozy  bog,  beneath  the  trees, 
Prophetic  of  the  spring  that  wakes, 
Sang  the  sonorous  hylodes. 

Now  that  wild  winds  have  stripped  the  thorn, 
And  clogged  with  leaves  the  forest-creek ; 
Now  that  the  woods  look  blown  and  bleak, 
And  webs  are  frosty  white  at  morn ; 
At  night  beneath  the  spectral  sky, 
A  far  foreboding  cry  I  hear  — 
The  wild  fowl  calling  as  they  fly  ? 
Or  wild  voice  of  the  dying  Year  ? 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     161 

XIII 

And  still  my  soul  holds  phantom  tryst, 
When  chestnuts  hiss  among  the  coals, 
Upon  the  Evening  of  All  Souls, 
When  all  the  night  is  moon  and  mist, 
And  all  the  world  is  mystery ; 
I  kiss  dear  lips  that  death  hath  kissed, 
And  gaze  in  eyes  no  man  may  see, 
Filled  with  a  love  long  lost  to  me. 

I  hear  the  night-wind's  ghostly  glove 
Flutter  the  window :  then  the  knob 
Of  some  dark  door  turn,  with  a  sob 
As  when  love  comes  to  gaze  on  love 
Who  lies  pale-coffined  in  a  room : 
And  then  the  iron  gallop  of 
The  storm,  who  rides  outside ;  his  plume 
Sweeping  the  night  with  dread  and  gloom. 

So  fancy  takes  the  mind,  and  paints 
The  darkness  with  eidolon  light, 
And  writes  the  dead's  romance  in  night 
On  the  dim  Evening  of  All  Saints : 
Unheard  the  hissing  nuts ;  the  clink 
And  fall  of  coals,  whose  shadow  faints 
Around  the  hearts  that  sit  and  think, 
Borne  far  beyond  the  actual's  brink. 


162     INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

XIV 

I  heard  the  wind,  before  the  morn 

Stretched  gaunt,  gray  fingers  'thwart  my  pane, 

Drive  clouds  down,  a  dark  dragon-train ; 

Its  iron  visor  closed,  a  horn 

Of  steel  from  out  the  north  it  wound.  — 

No  morn  like  yesterday's  !  whose  mouth, 

A  cool  carnation,  from  the  south 

Breathed  through  a  golden  reed  the  sound 

Of  days  that  drop  clear  gold  upon 

Cerulean  silver  floors  of  dawn. 

And  all  of  yesterday  is  lost 

And  swallowed  in  to-day's  wild  light  — 

The  birth  deformed  of  day  and  night, 

The  illegitimate,  who  cost 

Its  mother  secret  tears  and  sighs ; 

Unlovely  since  unloved ;  and  chilled 

With  sorrows  and  the  shame  that  filled 

Its  parents'  love ;  which  was  not  wise 

In  passion  as  the  day  and  night 

That  married  yestermorn  with  light. 

XV 

Down  through  the  dark,  indignant  trees, 

On  indistinguishable  wings 

Of  storm,  the  wind  of  evening  swings ; 


INTIMATIONS   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL     163 

Before  its  insane  anger  flees 
Distracted  leaf  and  shattered  bough : 
There  is  a  rushing  as  when  seas 
Of  thunder  beat  an  iron  prow 
On  reefs  of  wrath  and  roaring  wreck : 
'Mid  stormy  leaves,  a  hurrying  speck 
Of  flickering  blackness,  driven  by, 
A  mad  bat  whirls  along  the  sky. 

Like  some  sad  shadow,  in  the  eve's 

Deep  melancholy  —  visible 

As  by  some  strange  and  twilight  spell  — 

A  gaunt  girl  stands  among  the  leaves, 

The  night- wind  in  her  dolorous  dress : 

Symbolic  of  the  life  that  grieves, 

Of  toil  that  patience  makes  not  less, 

Her  load  of  fagots  fallen  there.  — • 

A  wilder  shadow  sweeps  the  air, 

And  she  is  gone.  .  .  .     Was  it  the  dumb 

Eidolon  of  the  month  to  come  ? 


XVI 

The  song  birds  —  are  they  flown  away  ? 
The  song  birds  of  the  summer  time, 
That  sang  their  souls  into  the  day, 
And  set  the  laughing  hours  to  rhyme. 


1 64     INTIMATIONS   OF   THE   BEAUTIFUL 

No  catbird  scatters  through  the  bush 
The  sparkling  crystals  of  its  song ; 
Within  the  woods  no  hermit-thrush 
Trails  an  enchanted  flute  along, 
Thridding  with  vocal  gold  the  hush. 

All  day  the  crows  fly  cawing  past : 

The  acorns  drop :  the  forests  scowl : 

At  night  I  hear  the  bitter  blast 

Hoot  with  the  hooting  of  the  owl. 

The  wild  creeks  freeze :  the  ways  are  strewn 

With  leaves  that  clog :  beneath  the  tree 

The  bird,  that  set  its  toil  to  tune, 

And  made  a  home  for  melody, 

Lies  dead  beneath  the  snow-white  moon. 


OCTOBER 

FAR  off  a  wind  blew,  and  I  heard 
Wild  echoes  of  the  woods  reply  — 

The  herald  of  some  royal  word, 

With  bannered  trumpet,  blown  on  high, 
Meseemed  then  passed  me  by : 

Who  summoned  marvels  there  to  meet, 
With  pomp,  upon  a  cloth  of  gold ; 

Where  berries  of  the  bittersweet, 
That,  splitting,  showed  the  coals  they  Lold, 
Sowed  garnets  through  the  wold : 

Where,  under  tents  of  maples,  seeds 

Of  smooth  carnelian,  oval  red, 
The  spice-bush  spangled :  where,  like  beads, 

The  dogwood's  rounded  rubies  —  fed 
With  fire  —  blazed  and  bled. 

And  there  I  saw  amid  the  rout 

Of  months,  in  richness  cavalier, 
A  minnesinger  —  lips  apout ; 

A  gypsy  face ;  straight  as  a  spear ; 
A  rose  stuck  in  his  ear : 
165 


166  OCTOBER 

Eyes,  sparkling  like  old  German  wine, 
All  mirth  and  moonlight ;  naught  to  spare 

Of  slender  beard,  that  lent  a  line 
To  his  short  lip ;   October  there, 
With  chestnut  curling  hair. 

His  brown  baretta  swept  its  plume 

Red  through  the  leaves ;  his  purple  hose, 

Puffed  at  the  thighs,  made  gleam  of  gloom ; 
His  tawny  doublet,  slashed  with  rose, 
And  laced  with  crimson  bows, 

Outshone  the  wahoo's  scarlet  pride, 
The  haw,  in  rich  vermilion  dressed : 

A  dagger  dangling  at  his  side, 
A  slim  lute,  banded  to  his  breast, 
Whereon  his  hands  were  pressed, 

I  saw  him  come.  .  .  .     And,  lo,  to  hear 
The  lilt  of  his  approaching  lute, 

No  wonder  that  the  regnant  Year 

Bent  down  her  beauty,  blushing  mute,k 
Her  heart  beneath  his  foot. 


FRIENDS 

DOWN  through  the  woods,  along  the  way 

That  fords  the  stream ;  by  rock  and  tree, 

Where  in  the  bramble-bell  the  bee 

Swings ;  and  through  twilights  green  and  gray 

The  redbird  flashes  suddenly, 

My  thoughts  went  wandering  to-day. 

I  found  the  fields  where,  row  on  row, 
The  blackberries  hang  dark  with  fruit ; 
Where,  nesting  at  the  elder's  root, 
The  partridge  whistles  soft  and  low ; 
The  fields,  that  billow  to  the  foot 
Of  those  old  hills  we  used  to  know. 

There  lay  the  pond,  all  willow-bound, 

On  whose  bright  face,  when  noons  were  hot, 

We  marked  the  bubbles  rise ;  some  plot 

To  lure  us  in ;  while  all  around 

Our  heads,  —  like  faery  fancies,  —  shot 

The  dragonflies  without  a  sound. 

The  pond,  above  which  evening  bent 
To  gaze  upon  her  gypsy  face ; 
Wherein  the  twinkling  night  would  trace 
167 


i68  FRIENDS 

A  vague,  inverted  firmament ; 

In  which  the  green  frogs  tuned  their  bass, 

And  firefly  sparkles  came  and  went. 

The  oldtime  place  we  often  ranged, 

When  we  were  playmates,  you  and  I ; 

The  oldtime  fields,  with  boyhood's  sky 

Still  blue  above  them  !  —  Naught  was  changed 

Nothing.  —  Alas  !  then,  tell  me  why 

Should  we  be  ?  whom  the  years  estranged. 


COMRADERY 

WITH  eyes  hand-arched  he  looks  into 
The  morning's  face ;  then  turns  away 
With  truant  feet,  all  wet  with  dew, 
Out  for  a  holiday. 

The  hill  brook  sings ;  incessant  stars, 
Foam-fashioned,  on  its  restless  breast ; 
And  where  he  wades  its  water-bars 
Its  song  is  happiest. 

A  comrade  of  the  chinquapin, 
He  looks  into  its  knotty  eyes 
And  sees  its  heart ;  and,  deep  within, 
Its  soul  that  makes  him  wise. 

The  wood-thrush  knows  and  follows  him, 
Who  whistles  up  the  birds  and  bees ; 
And  round  him  all  the  perfumes  swim 
Of  woodland  loam  and  trees. 

Where'er  he  pass  the  silvery  springs' 
Foam-people  sing  the  flowers  awake ; 
And  sappy  lips  of  bark-clad  things 
Laugh  ripe  each  berried  brake. 
169 


170  COMRADERY 

His  touch  is  a  companionship ; 
His  word  an  old  authority : 
He  comes,  a  lyric  on  his  lip, 
The  woodboy  —  Poesy. 


BARE  BOUGHS 

O  HEART,  —  that  beat  the  bird's  blithe  blood, 
The  blithe  bird's  strain,  and  understood 
The  song  it  sang  to  leaf  and  bud,  — 
What  dost  thou  in  the  wood  ? 

O  soul,  —  that  kept  the  brook's  glad  flow, 
The  glad  brook's  word  to  sun  and  moon,  — 
What  dost  thou  here  where  song  lies  low, 
And  dead  the  dreams  of  June  ? 

Where  once  was  heard  a  voice  of  song, 
The  hautboys  of  the  mad  winds  sing ; 
Where  once  a  music  flowed  along, 
The  rain's  wild  bugle's  ring. 

The  weedy  water  frets  and  ails, 
And  moans  in  many  a  sunless  fall ; 
And,  o'er  the  melancholy,  trails 
The  black  crow's  eldritch  call. 

Unhappy  brook  !    O  withered  wood  ! 
O  days,  whom  Death  makes  comrades  of  ! 
Where  are  the  birds  that  thrilled  the  blood 
When  Life  struck  hands  with  Love  ? 
171 


172  BARE   BOUGHS 

A  song,  one  soared  against  the  blue ; 
A  song,  one  silvered  in  the  leaves ; 
A  song,  one  blew  where  orchards  grew 
Gold-appled  to  the  eaves. 

The  birds  are  flown ;  the  flowers,  dead ; 
And  sky  and  earth  are  bleak  and  gray : 
Where  Joy  once  went,  all  light  of  tread, 
Grief  haunts  the  leaf -wild  way. 


DAYS  AND   DAYS 

THE  days  that  clothed  white  limbs  with  heat, 
And  rocked  the  red  rose  on  their  breast, 

Have  passed  with  amber-sandaled  feet 
Into  the  ruby-gated  west. 

These  were  the  days  that  filled  the  heart 

With  overflowing  riches  of 
Life,  in  whose  soul  no  dream  shall  start 

But  hath  its  origin  in  love. 

Now  come  the  days  gray-huddled  in 
The  haze ;  whose  foggy  footsteps  drip ; 

Who  pin  beneath  a  gypsy  chin 
The  frosty  marigold  and  hip. 

The  days,  whose  forms  fall  shadowy 
Athwart  the  heart :  whose  misty  breath 

Shapes  saddest  sweets  of  memory 
Out  of  the  bitterness  of  death. 
173 


AUTUMN  SORROW 

AH  me  !  too  soon  the  autumn  comes 
Among  these  purple-plaintive  hills  ! 
Too  soon  among  the  forest  gums 
Premonitory  flame  she  spills, 
Bleak,  melancholy  flame  that  kills. 

Her  white  fogs  veil  the  morn,  that  rims 
With  wet  the  moonflower's  elfin  moons ; 
And,  like  exhausted  starlight,  dims 
The  last  slim  lily-disk ;  and  swoons 
With  scents  of  hazy  afternoons. 

Her  gray  mists  haunt  the  sunset  skies, 
And  build  the  west's  cadaverous  fires, 
Where  Sorrow  sits  with  lonely  eyes, 
And  hands  that  wake  an  ancient  lyre, 
Beside  the  ghost  of  dead  Desire. 


THE  TREE-TOAD 

I 

SECLUDED,  solitary  on  some  underbough, 
Or  cradled  in  a  leaf,  'mid  glimmering  light, 

Like  Puck  thou  crouchest :  Haply  watching  how 
The  slow  toadstool  comes  bulging,  moony  white, 
Through  loosening  loam ;  or  how,  against  the  night, 

The  glowworm  gathers  silver  to  endow 

The  darkness  with ;  or  how  the  dew  conspires 
To  hang,  at  dusk,  with  lamps  of  chilly  fires 
Each  blade  that  shrivels  now. 

II 

O  vague  confederate  of  the  whippoorwill, 
Of  owl  and  cricket  and  the  katydid  ! 

Thou  gatherest  up  the  silence  in  one  shrill 
Vibrating  note  and  send'st  it  where,  half  hid 
In  cedars,  twilight  sleeps  —  each  azure  lid 

Drooping  a  line  of  golden  eyeball  still.  — 
Afar,  yet  near,  I  hear  thy  dewy  voice 
Within  the  Garden  of  the  Hours  apoise 
On  dusk's  deep  daffodil. 


1 76  THE  TREE-TOAD 

III 

Minstrel  of  moisture  !  silent  when  high  noon 

Shows  her  tanned  face  among  the  thirsting  clover 

And  parching  meadows,  thy  tenebrious  tune 
Wakes  with  the  dew  or  when  the  rain  is  over. 
Thou  troubadour  of  wetness  and  damp  lover 

Of  all  cool  things  !  admitted  comrade  boon 
Of  twilight's  hush,  and  little  intimate 
Of  eve's  first  fluttering  star  and  delicate 
Round  rim  of  rainy  moon  ! 

IV 

Art  trumpeter  of  Dwarfland  ?  does  thy  horn 
Inform  the  gnomes  and  goblins  of  the  hour 

When  they  may  gambol  under  haw  and  thorn, 

Straddling  each  winking  web  and  twinkling  flower  ? 
Or  bell-ringer  of  Elfland  ?  whose  tall  tower 

The  liriodendron  is  ?  from  whence  is  borne 
The  elfin  music  of  thy  bell's  deep  bass, 
To  summon  Faeries  to  their  starlit  maze, 
To  summon  them  or  warn. 


THE  CHIPMUNK 


HE  makes  a  roadway  of  the  crumbling  fence, 
Or  on  the  fallen  tree,  —  brown  as  a  leaf 

Fall  stripes  with  russet,  —  gambols  down  the  dense 

Green  twilight  of  the  woods.     We  see  not  whence 
He  comes,  nor  whither  (in  a  time  so  brief) 

He  vanishes  —  swift  carrier  of  some  Fay, 

Some  pixy  steed  that  haunts  our  child-belief  — 

A  goblin  glimpse  upon  some  wildwood  way. 


II 

What  harlequin  mood  of  nature  qualified 

Him  so  with  happiness  ?  and  limbed  him  with 

Such  young  activity  as  winds,  that  ride 

The  ripples,  have,  dancing  on  every  side  ? 

As  sunbeams  know,  that  urge  the  sap  and  pith 

Through  hearts  of  trees  ?  yet  made  him  to  delight, 
Gnome-like,  in  darkness,  —  like  a  moonlight  myth, 

Lairing  in  labyrinths  of  the  under  night. 

N  177 


178  THE   CHIPMUNK 

III 

Here,  by  a  rock,  beneath  the  moss,  a  hole 
Leads  to  his  home,  the  den  wherein  he  sleeps ; 

Lulled  by  near  noises  of  the  laboring  mole 

Tunneling  its  mine  —  like  some  ungainly  Troll  — 
Or  by  the  tireless  cricket  there  that  keeps 

Picking  its  rusty  and  monotonous  lute ; 
Or  slower  sounds  of  grass  that  creeps  and  creeps, 

And  trees  unrolling  mighty  root  on  root. 

IV 

Such  is  the  music  of  his  sleeping  hours. 

Day  hath  another  —  'tis  a  melody 
He  trips  to,  made  by  the  assembled  flowers, 
And  light  and  fragrance  laughing  'mid  the  bowers, 

And  ripeness  busy  with  the  acorn-tree. 
Such  strains,  perhaps,  as  filled  with  mute  amaze 

(The  silent  music  of  Earth's  ecstasy) 
The  Satyr's  soul,  the  Faun  of  classic  days. 


THE  WILD  IRIS 

THAT  day  we  wandered  'mid  the  hills,  —  so  lone 
Clouds  are  not  lonelier,  the  forest  lay 

In  emerald  darkness  round  us.     Many  a  stone 
And  gnarly  root,  gray-mossed,  made  wild  our  way 

And  many  a  bird  the  glimmering  light  along 

Showered  the  golden  bubbles  of  its  song. 

Then  in  the  valley,  where  the  brook  went  by, 
Silvering  the  ledges  that  it  rippled  from,  — 

An  isolated  slip  of  fallen  sky, 

Epitomizing  heaven  in  its  sum,  — 

An  iris  bloomed  —  blue,  as  if,  flower-disguised, 

The  gaze  of  Spring  had  there  materialized. 

I  Ijave  forgotten  many  things  since  then  — 
Much  beauty  and  much  happiness  and  grief ; 

And  toiled  and  dreamed  among  my  fellow-men, 
Rejoicing  in  the  knowledge  life  is  brief. 

"'Tis  winter  now,"  so  says  each  barren  bough; 

And  face  and  hair  proclaim  'tis  winter  now. 
179 


i8o  THE   WILD   IRIS 

I  would  forget  the  gladness  of  that  spring  ! 

I  would  forget  that  day  when  she  and  I, 
Between  the  bird-song  and  the  blossoming, 

Went  hand  in  hand  beneath  the  soft  May  sky  !  — 
Much  is  forgotten,  yea  —  and  yet,  and  yet, 
The  things  we  would  we  never  can  forget. 

Nor  I  how  May  then  minted  treasuries 
Of  crowfoot  gold ;  and  molded  out  of  light 

The  sorrel's  cups,  whose  elfin  chalices 

Of  limpid  spar  were  streaked  with  rosy  white : 

Nor  all  the  stars  of  twinkling  spiderwort, 

And  mandrake  moons  with  which  her  brows  were  girt. 

But  most  of  all,  yea,  it  were  well  for  me, 
Me  and  my  heart,  that  I  forget  that  flower, 

The  blue  wild  iris,  azure  fleur-de-lis, 
That  she  and  I  together  found  that  hour. 

Its  recollection  can  but  emphasize 

The  pain  of  loss,  remindful  of  her  eyes. 


DROUTH 


THE  hot  sunflowers  by  the  glaring  pike 

Lift  shields  of  sultry  brass ;  the  teasel  tops, 

Pink-thorned,  advance  with  bristling  spike  on  spike 
Against  the  furious  sunlight.     Field  and  copse 
Are  sick  with  summer :  now,  with  breathless  stops, 

The  locusts  cymbal ;  now  grasshoppers  beat 
Their  castanets :  and  rolled  in  dust,  a  team,  — 
Like  some  mean  life  wrapped  in  its  sorry  dream,  — 

An  empty  wagon  rattles  through  the  heat. 

II 

Where  now  the  blue  wild  iris  ?  flowers  whose  mouths 
Are  moist  and  musky?    Where  the  sweet-breathed 
mint, 

That  made  the  brook-bank  herby  ?    Where  the  South's 
Wild  morning-glories,  rich  in  hues,  that  hint 
At  coming  showers  that  the  rainbows  tint  ? 

Where  all  the  blossoms  that  the  wildwood  knows  ? 
The  frail  oxalis  hidden  in  its  leaves ; 
The  Indian-pipe,  pale  as  a  soul  that  grieves ; 

The  freckled  touch-me-not  and  forest  rose. 

181 


i82  DROUTH 

III 

Dead  !  dead  !  all  dead  beside  the  drouth-burnt  brook, 
Shrouded  in  moss  or  in  the  shriveled  grass. 

Where   waved   their   bells,  from  which   the   wild-bee 

shook 

The  dewdrop  once,  —  gaunt,  in  a  nightmare  mass, 
The  rank  weeds  crowd;    through  which  the  cattle 
pass, 

Thirsty  and  lean,  seeking  some  meager  spring, 
Closed  in  with  thorns,  on  which  stray  bits  of  wool 
The  panting  sheep  have  left,  that  sought  the  cool, 

From  morn  till  evening  wearily  wandering. 

IV 

No  bird  is  heard ;  no  throat  to  whistle  awake 

The  sleepy  hush ;  to  let  its  music  leak 
Fresh,  bubble-like,  through  bloom-roofs  of  the  brake : 

Only  the  green-gray  heron,  famine- weak,  — 

Searching  the  stale  pools  of  the  minnowless  creek,  — 
Utters  its  call ;  and  then  the  rain-crow,  too, 

False  prophet  now,  croaks  to  the  stagnant  air ; 

While  overhead,  —  still  as  if  painted  there,  — 
A  buzzard  hangs,  black  on  the  burning  blue. 


RAIN 

AROUND,  the  stillness  deepened ;  then  the  grain 
Went  wild  with  wind ;  and  every  briery  lane 
Was  swept  with  dust ;  and  then,  tempestuous  black, 
Hillward  the  tempest  heaved  a  monster  back, 
That  on  the  thunder  leaned  as  on  a  cane ; 
And  on  huge  shoulders  bore  a  cloudy  pack, 
That  gullied  gold  from  many  a  lightning-crack  : 
One  big  drop  splashed  and  wrinkled  down  the  pane, 
And  then  field,  hill,  and  wood  were  lost  in  rain. 

At  last,  through  clouds,  —  as  from  a  cavern  hewn 
Into  night's  heart,  —  the  sun  burst  angry  roon  ; 
And  every  cedar,  with  its  weight  of  wet, 
Against  the  sunset's  fiery  splendor  set, 
Frightened  to  beauty,  seemed  with  rubies  strewn : 
Then  in  drenched  gardens,  like  sweet  phantoms  met, 
Dim  odors  rose  of  pink  and  mignonette ; 
And  in  the  east  a  confidence,  that  soon 
Grew  to  the  calm  assurance  of  the  moon. 


183 


AT  SUNSET 

INTO  the  sunset's  turquoise  marge 
The  moon  dips,  like  a  pearly  barge 
Enchantment  sails  through  magic  seas 
To  faeryland  Hesperides, 
Over  the  hills  and  away. 

Into  the  fields,  in  ghost-gray  gown, 
The  young-eyed  Dusk  comes  slowly  down ; 
Her  apron  filled  with  stars  she  stands, 
And  one  or  two  slip  from  her  hands 
Over  the  hills  and  away. 

Above  the  wood's  black  caldron  bends 
The  witch-faced  Night  and,  muttering,  blends 
The  dew  and  heat,  whose  bubbles  make 
The  mist  and  musk  that  haunt  the  brake 
Over  the  hills  and  away. 

Oh,  come  with  me,  and  let  us  go 
Beyond  the  sunset  lying  low ; 
Beyond  the  twilight  and  the  night, 
Into  Love's  kingdom  of  long  light, 
Over  the  hills  and  away. 
184 


THE  LEAF-CRICKET 


SMALL  twilight  singer 
Of  dew  and  mist :  thou  ghost-gray,  gossamer  winger 

Of  dusk's  dim  glimmer, 
How  chill  thy  note  sounds ;  how  thy  wings  of  shimmer 

Vibrate,  soft-sighing, 
Meseems,  for  Summer  that  is  dead  or  dying. 

I  stand  and  listen, 
And  at  thy  song  the  garden-beds,  that  glisten 

With  rose  and  lily, 

Seem  touched  with  sadness ;  and  the  tuberose  chilly, 
Breathing  around  its  cold  and  colorless  breath, 
Fills  the  pale  evening  with  wan  hints  of  death. 

II 

I  see  thee  quaintly 
Beneath  the  leaf ;  thy  shell-shaped  winglets  faintly  — 

(As  thin  as  spangle 
Of  cobwebbed  rain)  —  held  up  at  airy  angle ; 

I  hear  thy  tinkle 

With  faery  notes  the  silvery  stillness  sprinkle ; 

185 


i86  THE   LEAF-CRICKET 

Investing  wholly 
The  moonlight  with  divinest  melancholy : 

Until,  in  seeming, 

I  see  the  Spirit  of  Summer  sadly  dreaming 
Amid  her  ripened  orchards,  russet-strewn, 
Her  great,  grave  eyes  fixed  on  the  harvest-moon. 

Ill 

As  dewdrops  beady ; 
As  mist  minute,  thy  notes  ring  low  and  reedy : 

The  vaguest  vapor 
Of  melody,  now  near ;  now,  like  some  taper 

Of  sound,  far-fading  — 
Thou  will-o'-wisp  of  music  aye  evading. 

Among  the  bowers, 
The  fog- washed  stalks  of  Autumn's  weeds  and  flowers, 

By  hill  and  hollow, 

I  hear  thy  murmur  and  in  vain  I  follow  — 
Thou  jack-o'-lantern  voice,  thou  pixy  cry, 
Thou  dirge,  that  tellest  Beauty  she  must  die. 

IV 

And  when  the  frantic 
Wild  winds  of  Autumn  with  the  dead  leaves  antic ; 

And  walnuts  scatter 
The  mire  of  lanes ;  and  dropping  acorns  patter 


THE  LEAF-CRICKET  187 

In  grove  and  forest, 
Like  some  frail  grief  with  the  rude  blast  thou  warrest, 

Sending  thy  slender 
Far  cry  against  the  gale,  that,  rough,  untender, 

Untouched  of  sorrow, 

Sweeps  thee  aside,  where,  haply,  I  to-morrow 
Shall  find  thee  lying  —  tiny,  cold  and  crushed, 
Thy  weak  wings  folded  and  thy  music  hushed. 


THE  WIND  OF  WINTER 

THE  Winter  Wind,  the  wind  of  death, 

Who  knocked  upon  my  door, 
Now  through  the  keyhole  entereth, 

Invisible  and  hoar : 
He  breathes  around  his  icy  breath 

And  treads  the  flickering  floor. 

I  heard  him,  wandering  in  the  night, 

Tap  at  my  windowpane ; 
With  ghostly  fingers,  snowy  white, 

I  heard  him  tug  in  vain, 
Until  the  shuddering  candlelight 

Did  cringe  with  fear  and  strain. 

The  fire,  awakened  by  his  voice, 

Leapt  up  with  frantic  arms, 
Like  some  wild  babe  that  greets  with  noise 

Its  father  home  who  storms, 
With  rosy  gestures  that  rejoice, 

And  crimson  kiss  that  warms. 

Now  in  the  hearth  he  sits  and,  drowned 
Among  the  ashes,  blows ; 
188 


THE  WIND   OF  WINTER  189 

Or  through  the  room  goes  stealing  round 

On  cautious-creeping  toes, 
Deep-mantled  in  the  drowsy  sound 

Of  night  that  sleets  and  snows. 

And  oft,  like  some  thin  faery-thing, 

The  stormy  hush  amid, 
I  hear  his  captive  trebles  sing 

Beneath  the  kettle's  lid ; 
Or  now  a  harp  of  elfland  string 

In  some  dark  cranny  hid. 

Again  I  hear  him,  implike,  whine, 

Cramped  in  the  gusty  flue ; 
Or  knotted  in  the  resinous  pine 

Raise  goblin  cry  and  hue, 
While  through  the  smoke  his  eyeballs  shine, 

A  sooty  red  and  blue. 

At  last  I  hear  him,  nearing  dawn, 

Take  up  his  roaring  broom, 
And  sweep  wild  leaves  from  wood  and  lawn, 

And  from  the  heavens  the  gloom, 
To  show  the  gaunt  world  lying  wan, 

And  morn's  cold  rose  a-bloom. 


THE  OWLET 


WHEN  dusk  is  drowned  in  drowsy  dreams, 
And  slow  the  hues  of  sunset  die ; 
When  firefly  and  moth  go  by, 
And  in  still  streams  the  new  moon  seems 

Another  moon  and  sky : 
Then  from  the  hills  there  comes  a  cry, 

The  owlet's  cry : 

A  shivering  voice  that  sobs  and  screams, 
With  terror  screams :  — 

"Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ? 
Who  rides  through  the  dusk  and  dew, 

With  a  pair  of  horns, 

As  thin  as  thorns, 
And  face  a  bubble-blue  ?  — 

Who,  who,  who ! 
Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ?" 

II 

When  night  has  dulled  the  lily's  white, 
And  opened  wide  the  moonflower's  eyes ; 
190 


THE   OWLET  191 

When  pale  mists  rise  and  veil  the  skies, 
And  round  the  height  in  whispering  flight 

The  night- wind  sounds  and  sighs : 
Then  in  the  wood  again  it  cries, 

The  owlet  cries: 

A  shivering  voice  that  calls  in  fright, 
In  maundering  fright :  — 

"Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ? 
Who  walks  with  a  shuffling  shoe 

'Mid  the  gusty  trees, 

With  a  face  none  sees, 
And  a  form  as  ghostly,  too  ?  — 

Who,  who,  who ! 
Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ?  " 

III 

When  midnight  leans  a  listening  ear 
And  tinkles  on  her  insect  lutes ; 
When  'mid  the  roots  the  cricket  flutes, 
And  marsh  and  mere,  now  far,  now  near, 

A  jack-o'-lantern  foots : 
Then  o'er  the  pool  again  it  hoots, 

The  owlet  hoots : 
A  voice  that  shivers  as  with  fear, 
That  cries  with  fear :  — 


I92  THE   OWLET 

"  Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ? 

Who  creeps  with  his  glowworm  crew 
Above  the  mire 
With  a  corpse-light  fire, 

As  only  dead  men  do  ?  — 
Who,  who,  who ! 

Who  is  it,  who  is  it,  who-o-o  ?  " 


EVENING  ON  THE  FARM 

FROM  out  the  hills  where  twilight  stands, 
Above  the  shadowy  pasture  lands, 
With  strained  and  strident  cry, 
Beneath  pale  skies  that  sunset  bands, 
The  bull-bats  fly. 

A  cloud  hangs  over,  strange  of  shape, 
And,  colored  like  the  half-ripe  grape, 
Seems  some  uneven  stain 
On  heaven's  azure ;  thin  as  crape, 
And  blue  as  rain. 

By  ways,  that  sunset's  sardonyx 
O'erflares,  and  gates  the  farm-boy  clicks, 
Through  which  the  cattle  came, 
The  mullein-stalks  seem  giant  wicks 
Of  downy  flame. 

From  woods  no  glimmer  enters  in, 
Above  the  streams  that,  wandering,  win 
To  where  the  wood  pool  bids, 
Those  haunters  of  the  dusk  begin,  — 
The  katydids. 

o  193 


i94  EVENING   ON  THE   FARM 

Adown  the  dark  the  firefly  marks 
Its  flight  in  gold  and  emerald  sparks ; 
And,  loosened  from  his  chain, 
The  shaggy  mastiff  bounds  and  barks, 
And  barks  again. 


Each  breeze  brings  scents  of  hill-heaped  hay ; 
And  now  an  owlet,  far  away, 
Cries  twice  or  thrice,  "  T-o-o-w-h-o-o  "  ; 
And  cool  dim  moths  of  mottled  gray 
Flit  through  the  dew. 

The  silence  sounds  its  frog-bassoon, 
Where,  on  the  woodland  creek's  lagoon,  — 
Pale  as  a  ghostly  girl 

Lost  'mid  the  trees,  —  looks  down  the  moon 
With  face  of  pearl. 

Within  the  shed  where  logs,  late  hewed, 
Smell  forest-sweet,  and  chips  of  wood 
Make  blurs  of  white  and  brown, 
The  brood-hen  cuddles  her  warm  brood 
Of  teetering  down. 

The  clattering  guineas  in  the  tree 
Din  for  a  time ;  and  quietly 


EVENING  ON  THE   FARM  195 

The  henhouse,  near  the  fence, 
Sleeps,  save  for  some  brief  rivalry 
Of  cocks  and  hens. 


A  cowbell  tinkles  by  the  rails, 
Where,  streaming  white  in  foaming  pails, 
Milk  makes  an  uddery  sound ; 
While  overhead  the  black  bat  trails 
Around  and  round. 

The  night  is  still.     The  slow  cows  chew 
A  drowsy  cud.     The  bird  that  flew 
And  sang  is  in  its  nest. 
It  is  the  time  of  falling  dew, 
Of  dreams  and  rest. 

The  beehives  sleep ;  and  round  the  walk, 
The  garden  path,  from  stalk  to  stalk 
The  bungling  beetle  booms, 
Where  two  soft  shadows  stand  and  talk 
Among  the  blooms. 

The  stars  are  thick :  the  light  is  dead 
That  dyed  the  west :  and  Drowsyhead, 
Tuning  his  cricket-pipe, 
Nods,  and  some  apple,  round  and  red, 
Drops  over-ripe. 


196  EVENING  ON  THE   FARM 

Now  down  the  road,  that  shambles  by, 
A  window,  shining  like  an  eye 
Through  climbing  rose  and  gourd, 
Shows  Age  and  young  Rusticity 
Seated  at  board. 


THE  LOCUST 

THOU  pulse  of  hotness,  who,  with  reedlike  breast, 
Makest  meridian  music,  long  and  loud, 

Accentuating  summer  !  —  Dost  thy  best 
To  make  the  sunbeams  fiercer,  and  to  crowd 

With  lonesomeness  the  long,  close  afternoon  — 
When  Labor  leans,  swart-faced  and  beady-browed, 

Upon  his  sultry  scythe  —  thou  tangible  tune 
Of  heat,  whose  waves  incessantly  arise 
Quivering  and  clear  beneath  the  cloudless  skies. 

Thou  singest,  and  upon  his  haggard  hills 

Drouth  yawns  and  rubs  his  heavy  eyes  and  wakes ; 

Brushes  the  hot  hair  from  his  face ;  and  fills 
The  land  with  death  as  sullenly  he  takes 

Downward  his  dusty  way.     'Midst  woods  and  fields 
At  every  pool  his  burning  thirst  he  slakes : 

No  grove  so  deep,  no  bank  so  high  it  shields 
A  spring  from  him ;  no  creek  evades  his  eye : 
He  needs  but  look  and  they  are  withered  dry. 

Thou  singest,  and  thy  song  is  as  a  spell 

Of  somnolence  to  charm  the  land  with  sleep ; 
197 


IQ8  THE   LOCUST 

A  thorn  of  sound  that  pierces  dale  and  dell, 
Diffusing  slumber  over  vale  and  steep. 

Sleepy  the  forest,  nodding  sleepy  boughs ; 
Sleepy  the  pastures  with  their  sleepy  sheep : 

Sleepy  the  creek  where  sleepily  the  cows 

Stand  knee-deep ;  and  the  very  heaven  seems 
Sleepy  and  lost  in  undetermined  dreams. 

Art  thou  a  rattle  that  Monotony, 

Summer's  dull  nurse,  old  sister  of  slow  Time, 

Shakes  for  Day's  peevish  pleasure,  who  in  glee 
Takes  its  discordant  music  for  sweet  rhyme  ? 

Or  oboe  that  the  Summer  Noontide  plays, 
Sitting  with  Ripeness  'neath  the  orchard  tree, 

Trying  repeatedly  the  same  shrill  phrase, 
Until  the  musky  peach  with  weariness 
Drops,  and  the  hum  of  murmuring  bees  grows  less  ? 


THE  DEAD   DAY 

THE  west  builds  high  a  sepulcher 
Of  cloudy  granite  and  of  gold, 

Where  twilight's  priestly  hours  inter 
The  Day  like  some  great  king  of  old. 

A  censer,  rimmed  with  silver  fire, 

The  new  moon  swings  above  his  tomb ; 

While,  organ-stops  of  God's  own  choir, 
Star  after  star  throbs  in  the  gloom. 

And  Night  draws  near,  the  sadly  sweet  — 
A  nun  whose  face  is  calm  and  fair  — 

And  kneeling  at  the  dead  Day's  feet 
Her  soul  goes  up  in  mists  like  prayer. 

In  prayer,  we  feel  through  dewy  gleam 
And  flowery  fragrance,  and — above 

All  earth — the  ecstasy  and  dream 

That  haunt  the  mystic  heart  of  love. 


199 


THE  OLD  WATER-MILL 

WILD  ridge  on  ridge  the  wooded  hills  arise, 

Between  whose  breezy  vistas  gulfs  of  skies 

Pilot  great  clouds  like  towering  argosies, 

And  hawk  and  buzzard  breast  the  azure  breeze. 

With  many  a  foaming  fall  and  glimmering  reach 

Of  placid  murmur,  under  elm  and  beech, 

The  creek  goes  twinkling  through  long  gleams  and 

glooms 

Of  woodland  quiet,  summered  with  perfumes : 
The  creek,  in  whose  clear  shallows  minnow-schools 
Glitter  or  dart ;  and  by  whose  deeper  pools 
The  blue  kingfishers  and  the  herons  haunt ; 
That,  often  startled  from  the  freckled  flaunt 
Of  blackberry-lilies  —  where  they  feed  or  hide  — 
Trail  a  lank  flight  along  the  forestside 
With  eery  clangor.     Here  a  sycamore 
Smooth,  wave-uprooted,  builds  from  shore  to  shore 
A  headlong  bridge  ;  and  there,  a  storm-hurled  oak 
Lays  a  long  dam,  where  sand  and  gravel  choke 
The  water's  lazy  way.     Here  mistflower  blurs 
Its  bit  of  heaven  ;  there  the  ox-eye  stirs 
Its  gloaming  hues  of  pearl  and  gold  ;  and  here, 
A  gray,  cool  stain,  like  dawn's  own  atmosphere, 

200 


THE   OLD   WATER-MILL  201 

The  dim  wild  carrot  lifts  its  crumpled  crest : 

And  over  all,  at  slender  flight  or  rest, 

The  dragonflies,  like  coruscating  rays 

Of  lapis-lazuli  and  chrysoprase, 

Drowsily  sparkle  through  the  summer  days : 

And,  dewlap-deep,  here  from  the  noontide  heat 

The  bell-hung  cattle  find  a  cool  retreat ; 

And  through  the  willows  girdling  the  hill, 

Now  far,  now  near,  borne  as  the  soft  winds  will, 

Comes  the  low  rushing  of  the  water-mill. 

Ah,  lovely  to  me  from  a  little  child, 
How  changed  the  place  !  wherein  once,  undefiled, 
The  glad  communion  of  the  sky  and  stream 
Went  with  me  like  a  presence  and  a  dream. 
Where  once  the  brambled  meads  and  orchardlands, 
Poured  ripe  abundance  down  with  mellow  hands 
Of  summer ;  and  the  birds  of  field  and  wood 
Called  to  me  in  a  tongue  I  understood ; 
And  in  the  tangles  of  the  old  rail-fence 
Even  the  insect  tumult  had  some  sense, 
And  every  sound  a  happy  eloquence : 
And  more  to  me  than  wisest  books  can  teach 
The  wind  and  water  said ;  whose  words  did  reach 
My  soul,  addressing  their  magnificent  speech,  — 
Raucous  and  rushing,  —  from  the  old  mill-wheel, 
That  made  the  rolling  mill-cogs  snore  and  reel, 


202  THE   OLD   WATER-MILL 

Like  some  old  ogre  in  a  faerytale 
Nodding  above  his  meat  and  mug  of  ale. 

How  memory  takes  me  back  the  ways  that  lead  — 

As  when  a  boy  —  through  woodland  and  through  mead  ! 

To  orchards  fruited ;  or  to  fields  in  bloom ; 

Or  briery  fallows,  like  a  mighty  room, 

Through  which  the  winds  swing  censers  of  perfume, 

And  where  deep  blackberries  spread  miles  of  fruit ;  — 

A  wildwood  feast,  that  stayed  the  plowboy's  foot 

When  to  the  tasseling  acres  of  the  corn 

He  drove  his  team,  fresh  in  the  primrose  morn ; 

And  from  the  liberal  banquet,  nature  lent, 

Plucked  dewy  handfuls  as  he  whistling  went.  — 

A  boy  once  more,  I  stand  with  sunburnt  feet 

And  watch  the  harvester  sweep  down  the  wheat ; 

Or  laze  with  warm  limbs  in  the  unstacked  straw 

Near  by  the  thresher,  whose  insatiate  maw 

Devours  the  sheaves,  hot-drawling  out  its  hum  — 

Like  some  great  sleepy  bee,  above  a  bloom, 

Made  drunk  with  honey  —  while,  grown  big  with  grain, 

The  bulging  sacks  receive  the  golden  rain. 

Again  I  tread  the  valley,  sweet  with  hay, 

And  hear  the  bobwhite  calling  far  away, 

Or  wood-dove  cooing  in  the  elder-brake ; 

Or  see  the  sassafras  bushes  madly  shake 


THE   OLD   WATER-MILL  203 

As  swift,  a  rufous  instant,  in  the  glen 
The  red  fox  leaps  and  gallops  to  his  den  : 
Or,  standing  in  the  violet-colored  gloam, 
Hear  roadways  sound  with  holiday  riding  home 
From  church  or  fair,  or  country  barbecue, 
Which  half  the  county  to  some  village  drew. 

How  spilled  with  berries  were  its  summer  hills, 
And  strewn  with  walnuts  all  its  autumn  rills  !  — 
And  chestnuts  too  !    burred  from  the  spring's  long 

flowers ; 

June's,  when  their  tree-tops  streamed  delirious  showers 
Of  blossoming  silver,  cool,  crepuscular, 
And  like  a  nebulous  radiance  shone  afar.  — 
And  maples  !  how  their  sappy  hearts  would  pour 
Rude  troughs  of  syrup,  when  the  winter  hoar 
Steamed  with  the  sugar-kettle,  day  and  night, 
And,  red,  the  snow  was  streaked  with  firelight. 
Then  it  was  glorious  !  the  mill-dam's  edge 
One  slope  of  frosty  crystal,  laid  a  ledge 
Of  pearl  across ;  above  which,  sleeted  trees 
Tossed  arms  of  ice,  that,  clashing  in  the  breeze, 
Tinkled  the  ringing  creek  with  icicles, 
Thin  as  the  peal  of  far-off  elfin  bells : 
A  sound  that  in  my  city  dreams  I  hear, 
That  brings  before  me,  under  skies  that  clear, 
The  old  mill  in  its  winter  garb  of  snow, 


204  THE   OLD   WATER-MILL 

Its  frozen  wheel  like  a  hoar  beard  below, 
And  its  west  windows,  two  deep  eyes  aglow. 

Ah,  ancient  mill,  still  do  I  picture  o'er 

Thy  cobwebbed  stairs  and  loft  and  grain-strewn  floor ; 

Thy  door,  —  like  some  brown,  honest  hand  of  toil, 

And  honorable  with  service  of  the  soil,  — 

Forever  open ;   to  which,  on  his  back 

The  prosperous  farmer  bears  his  bursting  sack, 

And  while  the  miller  measures  out  his  toll, 

Again  I  hear,  above  the  cogs'  loud  roll,  — 

That  makes  stout  joist  and  rafter  groan  and  sway,  — 

The  harmless  gossip  of  the  passing  day : 

Good  country  talk,  that  says  how  so-and-so 

Lived,  died,  or  wedded :  how  curculio 

And  codling-moth  play  havoc  with  the  fruit, 

Smut  ruins  the  corn  and  blight  the  grapes  to  boot : 

Or  what  is  news  from  town :  next  county  fair : 

How  well  the  crops  are  looking  everywhere :  — 

Now  this,  now  that,  on  which  their  interests  fix, 

Prospects  for  rain  or  frost,  and  politics. 

While,  all  around,  the  sweet  smell  of  the  meal 

Filters,  warm-pouring  from  the  rolling  wheel 

Into  the  bin ;  beside  which,  mealy  white, 

The  miller  looms,  dim  in  the  dusty  light. 

Again  I  see  the  miller's  home  between 

The  crinkling  creek  and  hills  of  beechen  green : 


THE   OLD   WATER-MILL  205 

Again  the  miller  greets  me,  gaunt  and  brown, 

Who  oft  o'erawed  my  boyhood  with  his  frown 

And  gray-browed  mien :  again  he  tries  to  reach 

My  youthful  soul  with  fervid  scriptural  speech.  — 

For  he,  of  all  the  countryside  confessed, 

The  most  religious  was  and  goodliest ; 

A  Methodist,  who  at  all  meetings  led ; 

Prayed  with  his  family  ere  they  went  to  bed. 

No  books  except  the  Bible  had  he  read  — 

At  least  so  seemed  it  to  my  younger  head.  — 

All  things  of  Heaven  and  Earth  he'd  prove  by  this, 

Be  it  a  fact  or  mere  hypothesis : 

For  to  his  simple  wisdom,  reverent, 

"  The  Bible  says"  was  all  of  argument.  — 

God  keep  his  soul !  his  bones  were  long  since  laid 

Among  the  sunken  gravestones  in  the  shade 

Of  those  dark-lichened  rocks,  that  wall  around 

The  family  burying-ground  with  cedars  crowned : 

Where  bristling  teasel  and  the  brier  combine 

With  clambering  wood-rose  and  the  wildgrape-vine 

To  hide  the  stone  whereon  his  name  and  dates 

Neglect,  with  mossy  hand,  obliterates. 


ARGONAUTS 

WITH  argosies  of  dawn  he  sails, 

And  triremes  of  the  dusk, 
The  Seas  of  Song,  whereon  the  gales 

Are  myths  that  trail  wild  musk. 

He  hears  the  hail  of  Siren  bands 
From  headlands  sunset-kissed ; 

The  Lotus-eaters  wave  pale  hands 
Within  a  land  of  mist. 

For  many  a  league  he  hears  the  roar 

Of  the  Symplegades ; 
And  through  the  far  foam  of  its  shore 

The  Isle  of  Sappho  sees. 

All  day  he  looks,  with  hazy  lids, 
At  gods  who  cleave  the  deep ; 

All  night  he  hears  the  Nereids 
Sing  their  wild  hearts  asleep. 

When  heaven  thunders  overhead, 
And  hell  upheaves  the  Vast, 

Dim  faces  of  the  ocean's  dead 
Gaze  at  him  from  each  mast. 

206 


ARGONAUTS  207 

He  but  repeats  the  oracle 

That  bade  him  first  set  sail ; 
And  cheers  his  soul  with,  "  All  is  well ! 

Go  on  !  I  will  not  fail." 

Behold  !  he  sails  no  earthly  bark 

And  on  no  earthly  sea, 
Who  down  the  years  into  the  dark,  — 

Divine  of  destiny,  — 

Holds  to  his  purpose,  —  ships  of  Greece,  — 

Ideal-steered  afar, 
For  whom  awaits  the  Golden  Fleece, 

The  fame  that  is  his  star. 


"THE  MORN  THAT  BREAKS  ITS  HEART  OF 
GOLD  " 

From  an  ode  "In  Commemoration  of  the  Founding  of   the 
Massachusetts  Bay  Colony." 

THE  morn  that  breaks  its  heart  of  gold 
Above  the  purple  hills ; 
The  eve,  that  spills 

Its  nautilus  splendor  where  the  sea  is  rolled ; 
The  night,  that  leads  the  vast  procession  in 
Of  stars  and  dreams,  — 
The  beauty  that  shall  never  die  or  pass :  — 
The  winds,  that  spin 
Of  rain  the  misty  mantles  of  the  grass, 
And  thunder  raiment  of  the  mountain-streams ; 
The  sunbeams,  penciling  with  gold  the  dusk 
Green  cowls  of  ancient  woods ; 
The  shadows,  thridding,  veiled  with  musk, 
The  moon-pathed  solitudes, 
Call  to  my  Fancy,  saying,  "  Follow  !  follow  !" 
Till,  following,  I  see,  — 
Fair  as  a  cascade  in  a  rainbowed  hollow,  — 
A  dream,  a  shape,  take  form, 
Clad  on  with  every  charm,  — 
208 


"MORN  THAT   BREAKS   ITS   HEART"  209 

The  vision  of  that  Ideality, 

Which  lured  the  pioneer  in  wood  and  hill, 

And  beckoned  him  from  earth  and  sky ; 

The  dream  that  cannot  die, 

Their  children's  children  did  fulfill, 

In  stone  and  iron  and  wood, 

Out  of  the  solitude, 

And  by  a  stalwart  act 

Create  a  mighty  fact  — 

A  Nation,  now  that  stands 

Clad  on  with  hope  and  beauty,  strength  and  song, 

Eternal,  young  and  strong, 

Planting  her  heel  on  wrong, 

Her  starry  banner  in  triumphant  hands.  .  .  . 

Within  her  face  the  rose 

Of  Alleghany  dawns ; 

Limbed  with  Alaskan  snows, 

Floridian  starlight  in  her  eyes,  — 

Eyes  stern  as  steel  yet  tender  as  a  fawn's,  — 

And  in  her  hair 

The  rapture  of  her  rivers ;  and  the  dare, 

As  perishless  as  truth, 

That  o'er  the  crags  of  her  Sierras  flies, 

Urging  the  eagle  ardor  through  her  veins, 

Behold  her  where, 

Around  her  radiant  youth, 


210  "MORN  THAT   BREAKS   ITS   HEART" 

The  spirits  of  the  cataracts  and  plains, 

The  genii  of  the  floods  and  forests,  meet, 

In  rainbow  mists  circling  her  brow  and  feet : 

The  forces  vast  that  sit 

In  session  round  her ;  powers  paraclete, 

That  guard  her  presence ;  awful  forms  and  fair, 

Making  secure  her  place ; 

Guiding  her  surely  as  the  worlds  through  space 

Do  laws  sidereal ;  edicts,  thunder-lit, 

Of  skyed  eternity,  in  splendor  borne 

On  planetary  wings  of  night  and  morn. 


From  her  high  place  she  sees 

Her  long  procession  of  accomplished  acts, 

Cloud- winged  refulgences 

Of  thoughts  in  steel  and  stone,  of  marble  dreams, 

Lift  up  tremendous  battlements, 

Sun-blinding,  built  of  facts ; 

While  in  her  soul  she  seems, 

Listening,  to  hear,  as  from  innumerable  tents, 

Ionian  thunder,  wonder,  and  applause 

Of  all  the  heroic  ages  that  are  gone ; 

Feeling  secure 

That,  as  her  Past,  her  Future  shall  endure, 

As  did  her  Cause 

When  redly  broke  the  dawn 


"MORN  THAT   BREAKS   ITS   HEART"  211 

Of  fierce  rebellion,  and,  beneath  its  star, 

The  firmaments  of  war 

Poured  down  infernal  rain, 

And  North  and  South  lay  bleeding  mid  their  slain. 

And  now,  no  less,  shall  her  great  Cause  prevail, 

More  so  in  peace  than  war, 

Through  the  thrilled  wire  and  electric  rail, 

Carrying  her  message  far : 

Shaping  her  dream 

Within  the  brain  of  steam, 

That,  with  a  myriad  hands, 

Labors  unceasingly,  and  knits  her  lands 

In  firmer  union ;  joining  plain  and  stream 

With  steel ;  and  binding  shore  to  shore 

With  bands  of  iron ;  —  nerves  and  arteries, 

Along  whose  adamant  forever  pour 

Her  concrete  thoughts,  her  tireless  energies. 


A  VOICE  ON  THE  WIND 


SHE  walks  with  the  wind  on  the  windy  height 
When  the  rocks  are  loud  and  the  waves  are  white, 
And  all  night  long  she  calls  through  the  night, 

"O  my  children,  come  home  !" 
Her  bleak  gown,  torn  as  a  tattered  cloud, 
Tosses  around  her  like  a  shroud, 
While  over  the  deep  her  voice  rings  loud,  — 

"O  my  children,  come  home,  come  home  ! 

O  my  children,  come  home  !" 

II 

Who  is  she  who  wanders  alone, 

When  the  wind  drives  sheer  and  the  rain  is  blown  ? 

Who  walks  all  night  and  makes  her  moan, 

"O  my  children,  come  home  !" 
Whose  face  is  raised  to  the  blinding  gale ; 
Whose  hair  blows  black  and  whose  eyes  are  pale, 
While  over  the  world  goes  by  her  wail,  - 

"O  my  children,  come  home,  come  home  ! 

O  my  children,  come  home  !" 


A  VOICE   ON  THE   WIND  213 

III 

She  walks  with  the  wind  in  the  windy  wood ; 
The  dark  rain  drips  from  her  hair  and  hood, 
And  her  cry  sobs  by,  like  a  ghost  pursued, 

"O  my  children,  come  home  !" 

Where  the  trees  loom  gaunt  and  the  rocks  stretch  drear, 
The  owl  and  the  fox  crouch  back  with  fear, 
As  wild  through  the  wood  her  voice  they  hear,  — 

"0  my  children,  come  home,  come  home  ! 

O  my  children,  come  home  !" 

IV 

Who  is  she  who  shudders  by 

When  the  boughs  blow  bare  and  the  dead  leaves  fly  ? 

Who  walks  all  night  with  her  wailing  cry, 

"O  my  children,  come  home  !" 
Who,  strange  of  look,  and  wild  of  tongue, 
With  wan  feet  wounded  and  hands  wild- wrung, 
Sweeps  on  and  on  with  her  cry,  far-flung,  — 

"O  my  children,  come  home,  come  home  ! 

O  my  children,  come  home  !" 


'Tis  the  Spirit  of  Autumn,  no  man  sees, 
The  mother  of  Death  and  of  Mysteries, 


214  A  VOICE   ON  THE   WIND 

Who  cries  on  the  wind  all  night  to  these, 
"O  my  children,  come  home  !" 

The  Spirit  of  Autumn,  pierced  with  pain, 

Calling  her  children  home  again, 

Death  and  Dreams,  through  ruin  and  rain,  — 
"O  my  children,  come  home,  come  home  ! 
O  my  children,  come  home  !" 


REQUIEM 

I 

No  more  for  him,  where  hills  look  down, 

Shall  Morning  crown 
Her  rainy  brow  with  blossom  bands  !  — 
The  Morning  Hours,  whose  rosy  hands 
Drop  wildflowers  of  the  breaking  skies 
Upon  the  sod  'neath  which  he  lies.  — 
No  more  for  him  !    No  more  !    No  more  '. 

II 

No  more  for  him,  where  waters  sleep, 

Shall  Evening  heap 
The  long  gold  of  the  perfect  days  ! 
The  Eventide,  whose  warm  hand  lays 
Great  poppies  of  the  afterglow 
Upon  the  turf  he  rests  below.  — 
No  more  for  him  !    No  more  !  no  more  ! 

Ill 

No  more  for  him,  where  woodlands  loom, 
Shall  Midnight  bloom 
215 


216  REQUIEM 

The  star-flowered  acres  of  the  blue  ! 
The  Midnight  Hours,  whose  dim  hands  strew 
Dead  leaves  of  darkness,  hushed  and  deep, 
Upon  the  grave  where  he  doth  sleep.  — 
No  more  for  him  !    No  more  !     No  more  ! 

IV 

The  hills,  that  Morning's  footsteps  wake : 

The  waves  that  take 
A  brightness  from  the  Eve ;  the  woods 
And  solitudes,  o'er  which  Night  broods, 
Their  Spirits  have,  whose  parts  are  one 
With  him,  whose  mortal  part  is  done. 

Whose  part  is  done. 


LYNCHERS 

AT  the  moon's  down-going  let  it  be 

On  the  quarry  hill  with  its  one  gnarled  tree. 

The  red-rock  road  of  the  underbrush, 

Where  the  woman  came  through  the  summer  hush. 

The  sumac  high  and  the  elder  thick, 

Where  we  found  the  stone  and  the  ragged  stick. 

The  trampled  road  of  the  thicket,  full 
Of  footprints  down  to  the  quarry  pool. 

The  rocks  that  ooze  with  the  hue  of  lead, 
Where  we  found  her  lying  stark  and  dead. 

The  scraggy  wood ;  the  negro  hut, 

With  its  doors  and  windows  locked  and  shut. 

A  secret  signal ;  a  foot's  rough  tramp ; 
A  knock  at  the  door ;  a  lifted  lamp. 

An  oath ;  a  scuffle ;  a  ring  of  masks ; 
A  voice  that  answers  a  voice  that  asks. 
217 


218  LYNCHERS 

A  group  of  shadows ;  the  moon's  red  fleck ; 
A  running  noose  and  a  man's  bared  neck. 

A  word,  a  curse,  and  a  shape  that  swings ; 
The  lonely  night  and  a  bat's  black  wings. 

At  the  moon's  down-going  let  it  be 

On  the  quarry  hill  with  its  one  gnarled  tree. 


THE  PARTING 

SHE  passed  the  thorn-trees,  whose  gaunt  branches  tossed 
Their  spider-shadows  round  her ;  and  the  breeze, 
Beneath  the  ashen  moon,  was  full  of  frost, 
And  mouthed  and  mumbled  to  the  sickly  trees, 
Like  some  starved  hag  who  sees  her  children  freeze. 

Dry-eyed  she  waited  by  the  sycamore. 
Some  stars  made  misty  blotches  in  the  sky. 
And  all  the  wretched  willows  on  the  shore 
Looked  faded  as  a  jaundiced  cheek  or  eye. 
She  felt  their  pity  and  could  only  sigh. 

And  then  his  skiff  ground  on  the  river  rocks. 
Whistling  he  came  into  the  shadow  made 
By  that  dead  tree.     He  kissed  her  dark  brown  locks ; 
And  round  her  form  his  eager  arms  were  laid. 
Passive  she  stood,  her  secret  unbetrayed. 

And  then  she  spoke,  while  still  his  greeting  kiss 
Ached  in  her  hair.     She  did  not  dare  to  lift 
Her  eyes  to  his  —  her  anguished  eyes  to  his, 
While  tears  smote  crystal  in  her  throat.     One  rift 
Of  weakness  humored  might  set  all  adrift. 

219 


220  THE   PARTING 

Anger  and  shame  were  his.     She  meekly  heard. 
And  then  the  oar-locks  sounded,  and  her  brain 
Remembered  he  had  said  no  farewell  word ; 
And  wild  emotion  swept  her ;  and  again 
Left  her  as  silent  as  a  carven  pain. 

She,  in  the  old  sad  farmhouse,  wearily 
Resumed  the  drudgery  of  her  common  lot, 
Regret  remembering.  —  'Midst  old  vices,  he, 
Who  would  have  trod  on,  and  somehow  did  not, 
The  wildflower,  that  had  brushed  his  feet,  forgot. 


FEUD 

A  MILE  of  lane,  —  hedged  high  with  ironweeds 
And  dying  daisies,  —  white  with  sun,  that  leads 
Downward  into  a  wood ;  through  which  a  stream 

Steals  like  a  shadow ;  over  which  is  laid 
A  bridge  of  logs,  worn  deep  by  many  a  team, 

Sunk  in  the  tangled  shade. 

Far  off  a  wood-dove  lifts  its  lonely  cry; 

And  in  the  sleepy  silver  of  the  sky 

A  gray  hawk  wheels  no  larger  than  a  hand.  — 

From  point  to  point  the  road  grows  worse  and  worse, 
Until  that  place  is  reached  where  all  the  land 

Seems  burdened  with  some  curse. 

A  ragged  fence  of  pickets,  warped  and  sprung,  — 
On  which  the  fragments  of  a  gate  are  hung,  — 
Divides  a  hill,  the  fox  and  ground-hog  haunt, 

A  wilderness  of  briers ;  o'er  whose  tops 
A  battered  barn  is  seen,  low-roofed  and  gaunt, 

'Mid  fields  that  know  no  crops. 


222  FEUD 

Fields  over  which  a  path,  o'erwhelmed  with  burrs 
And  ragweeds,  noisy  with  the  grasshoppers, 
Leads,  —  lost,  irresolute  as  paths  the  cows 

Wear  through  the  woods,  —  unto  a  woodshed ;  then, 
With  wrecks  of  windows,  to  a  huddled  house, 

Where  men  have  murdered  men. 

A  house,  whose  tottering  chimney,  clay  and  rock, 
Is  seamed  and  crannied ;  whose  lame  door  and  lock 
Are  bullet-bored ;  around  which,  there  and  here, 

Are  sinister  stains.  —  One  dreads  to  look  around.  — 
The  place  seems  thinking  of  that  time  of  fear 

And  dares  not  breathe  a  sound. 

Within  is  emptiness  :  The  sunlight  falls 

On  faded  journals  papering  the  walls ; 

On  advertisement  chromos,  torn  with  time, 

Around  a  hearth  where  wasps  and  spiders  build.  — 
The  house  is  dead :  meseems  that  night  of  crime 

It,  too,  was  shot  and  killed. 


KU  KLUX 

WE  have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core, 
And  nailed  a  warning  upon  his  door : 
By  the  Ku  Klux  laws  we  can  do  no  more. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  'mid  crib  and  stack, 
The  roof  of  his  low-porched  house  looms  black ; 
Not  a  line  of  light  at  the  door-sill's  crack. 

Yet  arm  and  mount !  and  mask  and  ride  ! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide  ! 

And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 

The  clouds  blow  heavy  toward  the  moon. 
The  edge  of  the  storm  will  reach  it  soon. 
The  kildee  cries  and  the  lonesome  loon. 

The  clouds  shall  flush  with  a  wilder  glare 
Than  the  lightning  makes  with  its  angled  flare, 
When  the  Ku  Klux  verdict  is  given  there. 

In  the  pause  of  the  thunder  rolling  low, 
A  rifle's  answer  —  who  shall  know 
From  the  wind's  fierce  hurl  and  the  rain's  black  blow  ? 

223 


224  KU   KLUX 

Only  the  signature,  written  grim 

At  the  end  of  the  message  brought  to  him  — 

A  hempen  rope  and  a  twisted  limb. 

So  arm  and  mount !  and  mask  and  ride  ! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide  ! 

For  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 


EIDOLONS 

THE  white  moth-mullein  brushed  its  slim 
Cool,  faery  flowers  against  his  knee ; 

In  places  where  the  way  lay  dim 
The  branches,  arching  suddenly, 

Made  tomblike  mystery  for  him. 

The  wild-rose  and  the  elder,  drenched 
With  rain,  made  pale  a  misty  place,  — 

From  which,  as  from  a  ghost,  he  blenched ; 
He  walking  with  averted  face, 

And  lips  in  desolation  clenched. 

For  far  within  the  forest,  —  where 
Weird  shadows  stood  like  phantom  men, 

And  where  the  ground-hog  dug  its  lair, 
The  she-fox  whelped  and  had  her  den,  — 

The  thing  kept  calling,  buried  there. 

One  dead  trunk,  like  a  ruined  tower, 

Dark-green  with  toppling  trailers,  shoved 

Its  wild  wreck  o'er  the  bush ;  one  bower 
Looked  like  a  dead  man,  capped  and  gloved, 

The  one  who  haunted  him  each  hour. 
225 


226  EIDOLONS 

Now  at  his  side  he  heard  it :  thin 
As  echoes  of  a  thought  that  speaks 

To  conscience.     Listening  with  his  chin 
Upon  his  palm,  against  his  cheeks 

He  felt  the  moon's  white  finger  win. 

And  now  the  voice  was  still :  and  lo, 

With  eyes  that  stared  on  naught  but  night, 

He  saw  ?  —  what  none  on  earth  shall  know  !  - 
Was  it  the  face  that  far  from  sight 

Had  lain  here,  buried  long  ago  ? 

But  men  who  found  him,  —  thither  led 
By  the  wild  fox,  —  within  that  place 

Read  in  his  stony  eyes,  'tis  said, 
The  thing  he  saw  there,  face  to  face, 

The  thing  that  left  him  staring  dead. 


THE  MAN  HUNT 

THE  woods  stretch  deep  to  the  mountain  side, 
And  the  brush  is  wild  where  a  man  may  hide. 

They  have  brought  the  bloodhounds  up  again 
To  the  roadside  rock  where  they  found  the  slain. 

They  have  brought  the  bloodhounds  up,  and  they 
Have  taken  the  trail  to  the  mountain  way. 

Three  times  they  circled  the  trail  and  crossed ; 
And  thrice  they  found  it  and  thrice  they  lost. 

Now  straight  through  the  trees  and  the  underbrush 
They  follow  the  scent  through  the  forest's  hush. 

And  their  deep-mouthed  bay  is  a  pulse  of  fear 
In  the  heart  of  the  wood  that  the  man  must  hear. 

The  man  who  crouches  among  the  trees 
From  the  stern-faced  men  who  follow  these. 

A  huddle  of  rocks  that  the  ooze  has  mossed, 
And  the  trail  of  the  hunted  again  is  lost. 
227 


228  THE   MAN   HUNT 

An  upturned  pebble ;  a  bit  of  ground 
A  heel  has  trampled  —  the  trail  is  found. 

And  the  woods  reecho  the  bloodhounds'  bay 
As  again  they  take  to  the  mountain  way. 

A  rock ;  a  ribbon  of  road ;  a  ledge, 

With  a  pine  tree  clutching  its  crumbling  edge. 

A  pine,  that  the  lightning  long  since  clave, 
Whose  huge  roots  hollow  a  ragged  cave. 

A  shout ;  a  curse ;  and  a  face  aghast ; 
The  human  quarry  is  laired  at  last. 

The  human  quarry  with  clay-clogged  hair 
And  eyes  of  terror  who  waits  them  there. 

That  glares  and  crouches  and  rising  then 
Hurls  clods  and  curses  at  dogs  and  men. 

Until  the  blow  of  a  gun-butt  lays 

Him  stunned  and  bleeding  upon  his  face. 

A  rope ;  a  prayer ;  and  an  oak-tree  near, 
And  a  score  of  hands  to  swing  him  clear. 

A  grim,  black  thing  for  the  setting  sun 
And  the  moon  and  the  stars  to  gaze  upon. 


MY  ROMANCE 

IF  it  so  befalls  that  the  midnight  hovers 

In  mist  no  moonlight  breaks, 
The  leagues  of  the  years  my  spirit  covers, 

And  my  self  myself  forsakes. 

And  I  live  in  a  land  of  stars  and  flowers, 

White  cliffs  by  a  silvery  sea ; 
And  the  pearly  points  of  her  opal  towers 

From  the  mountains  beckon  me. 

And  I  think  that  I  know  that  I  hear  her  calling 
From  a  casement  bathed  with  light  — 

Through  music  of  waters  in  waters  falling 
Mid  palms  from  a  mountain  height. 

And  I  feel  that  I  think  my  love's  awaited 

By  the  romance  of  her  charms ; 
That  her  feet  are  early  and  mine  belated 

In  a  world  that  chains  my  arms. 

But  I  break  my  chains  and  the  rest  is  easy  — 

In  the  shadow  of  the  rose, 
Snow-white,  that  blooms  in  her  garden  breezy, 

We  meet  and  no  one  knows. 
229 


230  MY  ROMANCE 

And  we  dream  sweet  dreams  and  kiss  sweet  kisses ; 

The  world  —  it  may  live  or  die  ! 
The  world  that  forgets ;  that  never  misses 

The  life  that  has  long  gone  by. 

We  speak  old  vows  that  have  long  been  spoken ; 

And  weep  a  long-gone  woe : 
For  you  must  know  our  hearts  were  broken 

Hundreds  of  years  ago. 


A  MAID   WHO  DIED  OLD 

FRAIL,  shrunken  face,  so  pinched  and  worn, 
That  life  has  carved  with  care  and  doubt ! 

So  weary  waiting,  night  and  morn, 
For  that  which  never  came  about ! 

Pale  lamp,  so  utterly  forlorn, 

In  which  God's  light  at  last  is  out. 

Gray  hair,  that  lies  so  thin  and  prim 
On  either  side  the  sunken  brows  ! 

And  soldered  eyes,  so  deep  and  dim, 
No  word  of  man  could  now  arouse  ! 

And  hollow  hands,  so  virgin  slim, 
Forever  clasped  in  silent  vows  ! 

Poor  breasts  !  that  God  designed  for  love, 
For  baby  lips  to  kiss  and  press ; 

That  never  felt,  yet  dreamed  thereof, 
The  human  touch,  the  child  caress  — 

That  lie  like  shriveled  blooms  above 
The  heart's  long-perished  happiness. 
231 


232  A   MAID   WHO   DIED   OLD 

O  withered  body,  Nature  gave 
For  purposes  of  death  and  birth, 

That  never  knew,  and  could  but  crave 

Those  things  perhaps  that  make  life  worth  — 

Rest  now,  alas  !  within  the  grave, 
Sad  shell  that  served  no  end  of  Earth. 


BALLAD  OF  LOW-LIE-DOWN 

JOHN-A-DREAMS  and  Harum-Scarum 

Came  a-riding  into  town : 
At  the  Sign  o'  the  Jug-and- Jorum 

There  they  met  with  Low-lie-down. 

Brave  in  shoes  of  Romany  leather, 
Bodice  blue  and  gypsy  gown, 

And  a  cap  of  fur  and  feather, 
In  the  inn  sat  Low-lie-down. 

Harum-Scarum  kissed  her  lightly ; 

Smiled  into  her  eyes  of  brown  : 
Clasped  her  waist  and  held  her  tightly, 

Laughing,  "Love  me,  Low-lie-down  !" 

Then  with  many  an  oath  and  swagger, 

As  a  man  of  great  renown, 
On  the  board  he  clapped  his  dagger, 

Called  for  sack  and  sat  him  down. 

So  a  while  they  laughed  together ; 

Then  he  rose  and  with  a  frown 
Sighed,  "While  still  'tis  pleasant  weather, 

I  must  leave  thee,  Low-lie-down." 
233 


234          BALLAD   OF  LOW-LIE-DOWN 

So  away  rode  Harum-Scarum ; 

With  a  song  rode  out  of  town ; 
At  the  Sign  o'  the  Jug-and- Jorum 

Weeping  tarried  Low-lie-down. 

Then  this  John-a-dreams,  in  tatters, 

In  his  pocket  ne'er  a  crown, 
Touched  her,  saying,  "  Wench,  what  matters  ! 

Dry  your  eyes  and,  come,  sit  down. 

"Here's  my  hand :  we'll  roam  together, 

Far  away  from  thorp  and  town. 
Here's  my  heart,  —  for  any  weather,  — 

And  my  dreams,  too,  Low-lie-down. 

"  Some  men  call  me  dreamer,  poet : 
Some  men  call  me  fool  and  clown  — 

What  I  am  but  you  shall  know  it, 
Only  you,  sweet  Low-lie-down." 

For  a  little  while  she  pondered : 

Smiled :  then  said,  "Let  care  go  drown  !" 

Up  and  kissed  him.  .  .  .     Forth  they  wandered, 
John-a-dreams  and  Low-lie-down. 


ROMANCE 

THUS  have  I  pictured  her :  —  In  Arden  old 
A  white-browed  maiden  with  a  falcon  eye, 

Rose-flushed  of  face,  with  locks  of  wind-blown  gold, 
Teaching  her  hawks  to  fly. 

Or,  'mid  her  boar-hounds,  panting  with  the  heat, 
In  huntsman  green,  sounding  the  hunt's  wild  prize, 

Plumed,  dagger-belted,  while  beneath  her  feet 
The  spear-pierced  monster  dies. 

Or  in  Breceliand,  on  some  high  tower, 
Clad  white  in  samite,  last  of  her  lost  race, 

My  soul  beholds  her,  lovelier  than  a  flower, 
Gazing  with  pensive  face. 

Or,  robed  in  raiment  of  romantic  lore, 

Like  Oriana,  dark  of  eye  and  hair, 
Riding  through  realms  of  legend  evermore, 

And  ever  young  and  fair. 

Or  now  like  Bradamant,  as  brave  as  just, 

In  complete  steel,  her  pure  face  lit  with  scorn, 

At  giant  castles,  dens  of  demon  lust, 
Winding  her  bugle-horn. 
235 


236  ROMANCE 

Another  Una ;  and  in  chastity 

A  second  Britomart ;  in  beauty  far 
O'er  her  who  led  King  Charles's  chivalry 

And  Paynim  lands  to  war.  .  .  . 

Now  she,  from  Avalon's  deep-dingled  bowers,  — 
'Mid  which  white  stars  and  never- waning  moons 

Make  marriage ;    and   dim  lips   of   musk-mouthed 

flowers 
Sigh  faint  and  fragrant  tunes,  — 

Implores  me  follow ;  and,  in  shadowy  shapes 
Of  sunset,  shows  me,  —  mile  on  misty  mile 

Of  purple  precipice,  —  all  the  haunted  capes 
Of  her  enchanted  isle. 

Where,  bowered  in  bosks  and  overgrown  with  vine, 
Upon  a  headland  breasting  violet  seas, 

Her  castle  towers,  like  a  dream  divine, 
With  stairs  and  galleries. 

And  at  her  casement,  Circe-beautiful, 
Above  the  surgeless  reaches  of  the  deep, 

She  sits,  while,  in  her  gardens,  fountains  lull 
The  perfumed  wind  asleep. 

Or,  round  her  brow  a  diadem  of  spars, 

She  leans  and  hearkens,  from  her  raven  height, 


ROMANCE  237 

The  nightingales  that,  choiring  to  the  stars, 
Take  with  wild  song  the  night. 

Or,  where  the  moon  is  mirrored  in  the  waves, 
To  mark,  deep  down,  the  Sea  King's  city  rolled, 

Wrought  of  huge  shells  and  labyrinthine  caves, 
Ribbed  pale  with  pearl  and  gold. 

There  doth  she  wait  forever ;  and  the  kings 
Of  all  the  world  have  wooed  her :  but  she  cares 

For  none  but  him,  the  Love,  that  dreams  and  sings, 
That  sings  and  dreams  and  dares. 


AMADIS  AND  ORIANA 

From  "  Beltenebros  at  Miraflores  " 

O  SUNSET,  from  the  springs  of  stars, 

Draw  down  thy  cataracts  of  gold ; 
And  belt  their  streams  with  burning  bars 

Of  ruby  on  which  flame  is  rolled : 
Drench  dingles  with  laburnum  light ; 

Drown  every  vale  in  violet  blaze :  ^ 
Rain  rose-light  down ;  and,  poppy-bright, 

Die  downward  o'er  the  hills  of  haze, 
And  bring  at  last  the  stars  of  night ! 

The  stars  and  moon  !  that  silver  world, 

Which,  like  a  spirit,  faces  west, 
Her  foam-white  feet  with  light  empearled, 
Bearing  white  flame  within  her  breast : 
Earth's  sister  sphere  of  fire  and  snow, 

Who  shows  to  Earth  her  heart's  pale  heat, 
And  bids  her  mark  its  pulses  glow, 

And  hear  their  crystal  currents  beat 
With  beauty,  lighting  all  below. 
238 


AMADIS   AND   ORIANA  239 

O  cricket,  with  thy  elfin  pipe, 

That  tinkles  in  the  grass  and  grain ; 
And  dove-pale  buds,  that,  dropping,  stripe 

The  glen's  blue  night,  and  smell  of  rain ; 
O  nightingale,  that  so  dost  wail 

On  yonder  blossoming  branch  of  snow, 
Thrill,  fill  the  wild  deer-haunted  dale, 

Where  Oriana,  walking  slow, 
Comes,  thro'  the  moonlight,  dreamy  pale. 

She  comes  to  meet  me  !  —  Earth  and  air 

Grow  radiant  with  another  light. 
In  her  dark  eyes  and  her  dark  hair 

Are  all  the  stars  and  all  the  night : 
She  comes  !     I  clasp  her  !  —  and  it  is 

As  if  no  grief  had  ever  been.  — 
In  all  the  world  for  us  who  kiss 

There  are  no  other  women  or  men 
But  Oriana  and  Amadis. 


THE  ROSICRUCIAN 


THE  tripod  flared  with  a  purple  spark, 
And  the  mist  hung  emerald  in  the  dark : 
Now  he  stooped  to  the  lilac  flame 

Over  the  glare  of  the  amber  embers, 
Thrice  to  utter  no  earthly  name ; 

Thrice,  like  a  mind  that  half  remembers ; 
Bathing  his  face  in  the  magic  mist 
Where  the  brilliance  burned  like  an  amethyst. 

II 

"  Sylph,  whose  soul  was  born  of  mine, 
Born  of  the  love  that  made  me  thine, 
Once  more  flash  on  my  eyes  !  Again 

Be  the  loved  caresses  taken  ! 
Lip  to  lip  let  our  forms  remain  !  — 

Here  in  the  circle  sense,  awaken  ! 
Ere  spirit  meet  spirit,  the  flesh  laid  by, 
Let  me  touch  thee,  and  let  me  die." 
240 


THE   ROSICRUCIAN  241 

III 

Sunset  heavens  may  burn,  but  never 

Know  such  splendor  !    There  bloomed  an  ever 

Opaline  orb,  where  the  sylphid  rose 

A  shape  of  luminous  white ;  diviner 
White  than  the  essence  of  light  that  sows 

The  moons  and  suns  through  space ;  and  finer 
Than  radiance  born  of  a  shooting-star, 
Or  the  wild  Aurora  that  streams  afar. 

IV 

"Look  on  the  face  of  the  soul  to  whom 
Thou  givest  thy  soul  like  added  perfume  ! 
Thou,  who  heard'st  me,  who  long  had  prayed, 

Waiting  alone  at  morning's  portal !  — 
Thus  on  thy  lips  let  my  lips  be  laid, 

Love,  who  hast  made  me  all  immortal ! 
Give  me  thine  arms  now  !     Come  and  rest 
Weariness  out  on  my  beaming  breast !" 


Was  it  her  soul  ?  or  the  sapphire  fire 
That  sang  like  the  note  of  a  seraph's  lyre  ? 
Out  of  her  mouth  there  fell  no  word  — 

She  spake  with  her  soul,  as  a  flower  speaketh 


242  THE   ROSICRUCIAN 

Fragrant  messages  none  hath  heard, 

Which  the  sense  divines  when  the  spirit  seeketh. .  . . 
And  he  seemed  alone  in  a  place  so  dim 
That  the  spirit's  face,  who  was  gazing  at  him, 
For  its  burning  eyes  he  could  not  see : 
Then  he  knew  he  had  died ;  that  she  and  he 
Were  one ;  and  he  saw  that  this  was  she. 


THE  AGE  OF   GOLD 

THE  clouds  that  tower  in  storm,  that  beat 

Arterial  thunder  in  their  veins ; 
The  wildflowers  lifting,  shyly  sweet, 

Their  perfect  faces  from  the  plains,  — 
All  high,  all  lowly  things  of  Earth 
For  no  vague  end  have  had  their  birth. 

Low  strips  of  mist  that  mesh  the  moon 

Above  the  foaming  waterfall ; 
And  mountains,  that  God's  hand  hath  hewn, 

And  forests,  where  the  great  winds  call,  — 
Within  the  grasp  of  such  as  see 
Are  parts  of  a  conspiracy ; 

To  seize  the  soul  with  beauty ;  hold 
The  heart  with  love :  and  thus  fulfill 

Within  ourselves  the  Age  of  Gold, 
That  never  died,  and  never  will,  — 

As  long  as  one  true  nature  feels 

The  wonders  that  the  world  reveals. 


243 


BEAUTY  AND  ART 

THE  gods  are  dead ;  but  still  for  me 

Lives  on  in  wildwood  brook  and  tree 
Each  myth,  each  old  divinity. 

For  me  still  laughs  among  the  rocks 

The  Naiad ;  and  the  Dryad's  locks 
Drop  perfume  on  the  wildflower  flocks. 

The  Satyr's  hoof  still  prints  the  loam ; 

And,  whiter  than  the  wind-blown  foam, 
The  Oread  haunts  her  mountain  home. 

To  him,  whose  mind  is  fain  to  dwell 
With  loveliness  no  time  can  quell, 
All  things  are  real,  imperishable. 

To  him  —  whatever  facts  may  say  — 
Who  sees  the  soul  beneath  the  clay, 
Is  proof  of  a  diviner  day. 

The  very  stars  and  flowers  preach 
A  gospel  old  as  God,  and  teach 
Philosophy  a  child  may  reach ; 
244 


BEAUTY  AND   ART  245 

That  cannot  die ;  that  shall  not  cease ; 

That  lives  through  idealities 
Of  Beauty,  ev'n  as  Rome  and  Greece. 

That  lifts  the  soul  above  the  clod, 

And,  working  out  some  period 
Of  art,  is  part  and  proof  of  God. 


THE  SEA  SPIRIT 

AH  me  !  I  shall  not  waken  soon 
From  dreams  of  such  divinity  ! 
A  spirit  singing  'neath  the  moon 
Tome. 

Wild  sea-spray  driven  of  the  storm 
Is  not  so  wildly  white  as  she, 
Who  beckoned  with  a  foam- white  arm 
To  me. 

With  eyes  dark  green,  and  golden-green 
Long  locks  that  rippled  drippingly, 
Out  of  the  green  wave  she  did  lean 
Tome. 

And  sang ;  till  Earth  and  Heaven  seemed 
A  far,  forgotten  memory, 
And  more  than  Heaven  in  her  who  gleamed 
On  me. 

Sleep,  sweeter  than  love's  face  or  home ; 
And  death's  immutability ; 
And  music  of  the  plangent  foam, 
For  me ! 

246 


THE   SEA   SPIRIT  247 

Sweep  over  her  !  with  all  thy  ships, 
With  all  thy  stormy  tides,  O  sea  !  — 
The  memory  of  immortal  lips 
For  me ! 


GARGAPHIE 

"Succinctce  sacra  Diance."  —  OVID 


THERE  the  ragged  sunlight  lay 
Tawny  on  thick  ferns  and  gray 

On  dark  waters :  dimmer, 
Lone  and  deep,  the  cypress  grove 
Bowered  mystery  and  wove 
Braided  lights,  like  those  that  love 
On  the  pearl  plumes  of  a  dove 

Faint  to  gleam  and  glimmer. 

II 

There  centennial  pine  and  oak 
Into  stormy  cadence  broke : 

Hollow  rocks  gloomed,  slanting, 
Echoing  in  dim  arcade, 
Looming  with  long  moss,  that  made 
Twilight  streaks  in  tatters  laid : 
Where  the  wild  hart,  hunt-affrayed, 

Plunged  the  water,  panting. 
248 


GARGAPHIE  249 

III 

Poppies  of  a  sleepy  gold 

Mooned  the  gray-green  darkness  rolled 

Down  its  vistas,  making 
Wisp-like  blurs  of  flame.     And  pale 
Stole  the  dim  deer  down  the  vale : 
And  the  haunting  nightingale 
Throbbed  unseen  —  the  olden  tale 

All  its  wild  heart  breaking. 

IV 

There  the  hazy  serpolet, 
Dewy  cistus,  blooming  wet, 

Blushed  on  bank  and  bowlder ; 
There  the  cyclamen,  as  wan 
As  first  footsteps  of  the  dawn, 
Carpeted  the  spotted  lawn : 
Where  the  nude  nymph,  dripping  drawn, 

Basked  a  wildflower  shoulder. 


In  the  citrine  shadows  there 
What  tall  presences  and  fair,  > 

Godlike,  stood  !  —  or,  gracious 
As  the  rock-rose  there  that  grew, 


250  GARGAPHIE 

Delicate  and  dim  as  dew, 
Stepped  from  boles  of  oaks,  and  drew 
Faunlike  forms  to  follow,  who 
Filled  the  forest  spacious  !  — 


VI 

Guarding  that  Boeotian 
Valley  so  no  foot  of  man 

Soiled  its  silence  holy 
With  profaning  tread  —  save  one, 
The  Hyantian :  Actaeon, 
Who  beheld,  and  might  not  shun 
Pale  Diana's  wrath ;  undone 

By  his  own  mad  folly. 

VII 

Lost  it  lies  —  that  valley :  sleeps 
In  serene  enchantment ;  keeps 

Beautiful  its  banished 
Bowers  that  no  man  may  see ; 
Fountains  that  her  deity 
Haunts,  and  every  rock  and  tree 
Where  her  hunt  goes  swinging  free 

As  in  ages  vanished. 


THE  DEAD   OREAD 

HER  heart  is  still  and  leaps  no  more 
With  holy  passion  when  the  breeze, 

Her  whilom  playmate,  as  before, 

Comes  with  the  language  of  the  bees, 

Sad  songs  her  mountain  cedars  sing, 

And  water-music  murmuring. 

Her  calm  white  feet,  —  erst  fleet  and  fast 
As  Daphne's  when  a  god  pursued,  — 

No  more  will  dance  like  sunlight  past 
The  gold-green  vistas  of  the  wood, 

Where  every  quailing  floweret 

Smiled  into  life  where  they  were  set. 


Hers  were  the  limbs  of  living  light, 

And  breasts  of  snow ;  as  virginal 
As  mountain  drifts ;  and  throat  as  white 

As  foam  of  mountain  waterfall ; 
And  hyacinthine  curls,  that  streamed 
Like  crag-born  mists,  and  gloomed  and  gleamed. 
251 


252  THE    DEAD    OREAD 

Her  presence  breathed  such  scents  as  haunt 
Moist,  mountain  dells  and  solitudes ; 

Aromas  wild  as  some  wild  plant 

That  fills  with  sweetness  all  the  woods  : 

And  comradeships  of  stars  and  skies 

Shone  in  the  azure  of  her  eyes. 

Her  grave  be  by  a  mossy  rock 
Upon  the  top  of  some  wild  hill, 

Removed,  remote  from  men  who  mock 
The  myths  and  dreams  of  life  they  kill : 

Where  all  of  beauty,  naught  of  lust 

May  guard  her  solitary  dust. 


THE  FAUN 

THE  joys  that  touched  thee  once,  be  mine  ! 

The  sympathies  of  sky  and  sea, 
The  friendships  of  each  rock  and  pine, 

That  made  thy  lonely  life,  ah  me  ! 

In  Tempe  or  in  Gargaphie. 

Such  joy  as  thou  didst  feel  when  first, 
On  some  wild  crag,  thou  stood'st  alone 

To  watch  the  mountain  tempest  burst, 
With  streaming  thunder,  lightning-sown, 
On  Latmos  or  on  Pelion. 

Thy  awe  !  when,  crowned  with  vastness,  Night 
And  Silence  ruled  the  deep's  abyss ; 

And  through  dark  leaves  thou  saw'st  the  white 
Breasts  of  the  starry  maids  who  kiss 
Pale  feet  of  moony  Artemis. 

Thy  dreams  !  when,  breasting  matted  weeds 

Of  Arethusa,  thou  didst  hear 
The  music  of  the  wind-swept  reeds ; 

And  down  dim  forest- ways  drew  near 

Shy  herds  of  slim  Arcadian  deer. 
253 


254  THE   FAUN 

Thy  wisdom  !  that  knew  naught  but  love 
And  beauty,  with  which  love  is  fraught ; 

The  wisdom  of  the  heart  —  whereof 

All  noblest  passions  spring  —  that  thought 
As  Nature  thinks,  "  All  else  is  naught." 

Thy  hope  !  wherein  To-morrow  set 
No  shadow ;  hope,  that,  lacking  care 

And  retrospect,  held  no  regret, 

But  bloomed  in  rainbows  everywhere, 
Filling  with  gladness  all  the  air. 

These  were  thine  all :  in  all  life's  moods 
Embracing  all  of  happiness : 

And  when  within  thy  long-loved  woods 
Didst  lay  thee  down  to  die  —  no  less 
Thy  happiness  stood  by  to  bless. 


THE  PAPHIAN  VENUS 

WITH  anxious  eyes  and  dry,  expectant  lips, 
Within  the  sculptured  stoa  by  the  sea, 

All  day  she  waited  while,  like  ghostly  ships, 
Long  clouds  rolled  over  Paphos :  the  wild  bee 

Hung  in  the  sultry  poppy,  half  asleep, 

Beside  the  shepherd  and  his  drowsy  sheep. 

White-robed  she  waited  day  by  day ;  alone 
With  the  white  temple's  shrined  concupiscence, 

The  Paphian  goddess  on  her  obscene  throne, 
Binding  all  chastity  to  violence, 

All  innocence  to  lust  that  feels  no  shame  — 

Venus  Mylitta  born  of  filth  and  flame. 

So  must  they  haunt  her  marble  portico, 
The  devotees  of  Paphos,  passion-pale 

As  moonlight  streaming  through  the  stormy  snow ; 
Dark  eyes  desirous  of  the  stranger  sail, 

The  gods  shall  bring  across  the  Cyprian  Sea, 

With  him  elected  to  their  mastery. 

A  priestess  of  the  temple  came,  when  eve 
Blazed,  like  a  satrap's  triumph,  in  the  west ; 
255 


256  THE  PAPHIAN  VENUS 

And  watched  her  listening  to  the  ocean's  heave, 

Dusk's  golden  glory  on  her  face  and  breast, 
And  in  her  hair  the  rosy  wind's  caress,  — 
Pitying  her  dedicated  tenderness. 

When  out  of  darkness  night  persuades  the  stars, 
A  dream  shall  bend  above  her  saying,  "Soon 

A  barque  shall  come  with  purple  sails  and  spars, 
Sailing  from  Tarsus  'neath  a  low  white  moon ; 

And  thou  shalt  see  one  in  a  robe  of  Tyre 

Facing  toward  thee  like  the  god  Desire. 

"  Rise  then  !  as,  clad  in  starlight,  riseth  Night  — 
Thy  nakedness  clad  on  with  loveliness  ! 

So  shalt  thou  see  him,  like  the  god  Delight, 

Breast  through  the  foam  and  climb  the  cliff  to  press 

Hot  lips  to  thine  and  lead  thee  in  before 

Love's  awful  presence  where  ye  shall  adore." 

Thus  at  her  heart  the  vision  entered  in, 

With  lips  of  lust  the  lips  of  song  had  kissed, 

And  eyes  of  passion  laughing  with  sweet  sin, 
A  shimmering  splendor  robed  in  amethyst,  — 

Seen  like  that  star  set  in  the  glittering  gloam,  — 

Venus  Mylitta  born  of  fire  and  foam. 

So  shall  she  dream  until,  near  middle  night,  — 
When  on  the  blackness  of  the  ocean's  rim 


THE   PAPHIAN  VENUS  257 

The  moon,  like  some  war-galleon  all  alight 

With  blazing  battle,  from  the  sea  shall  swim,  — 
A  shadow,  with  inviolate  lips  and  eyes, 
Shall  rise  before  her  speaking  in  this  wise : 

"So  hast  thou  heard  the  promises  of  one,  — 
Of  her,  with  whom  the  God  of  gods  is  wroth,  — 

For  whom  was  prophesied  at  Babylon 
The  second  death  —  Chaldaean  Mylidoth  ! 

Whose  feet  take  hold  on  darkness  and  despair, 

Hissing  destruction  in  her  heart  and  hair. 

"Wouldst  thou  behold  the  vessel  she  would  bring?  — 
A  wreck !    ten  hundred  years  have  smeared  with 
slime : 

A  hulk  !  where  all  abominations  cling, 

The  spawn  and  vermin  of  the  seas  of  time : 

Wild  waves  have  rotted  it ;  fierce  suns  have  scorched ; 

Mad  winds  have  tossed  and  stormy  stars  have  torched. 

"  Can  lust  give  birth  to  love  ?    The  vile  and  foul 
Be  mother  to  beauty  ?    Lo  !  can  this  thing  be  ?  — 

A  monster  like  a  man  shall  rise  and  howl 
Upon  the  wreck  across  the  crawling  sea, 

Then  plunge ;  and  swim  unto  thee ;  like  an  ape, 

A  beast  all  belly.  —  Thou  canst  not  escape  ! " 

Gone  was  the  shadow  with  the  suffering  brow ; 
And  in  the  temple's  porch  she  lay  and  wept, 


258  THE   PAPHIAN   VENUS 

Alone  with  night,  the  ocean,  and  her  vow.  — 

Then  up  the  east  the  moon's  full  splendor  swept, 
And  dark  between  it  —  wreck  or  argosy  ?  — 
A  sudden  vessel  far  away  at  sea. 


ORIENTAL  ROMANCE 


BEYOND  lost  seas  of  summer  she 
Dwelt  on  an  island  of  the  sea, 
Last  scion  of  that  dynasty, 
Queen  of  a  race  forgotten  long.  — 
With  eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  song, 
From  seaward  groves  of  blowing  lemon, 
She  called  me  in  her  native  tongue, 
Low-leaned  on  some  rich  robe  of  Yemen. 


II 

I  was  a  king.     Three  moons  we  drove 
Across  green  gulfs,  the  crimson  clove 
And  cassia  spiced,  to  claim  her  love. 
Packed  was  my  barque  with  gums  and  gold ; 
Rich  fabrics ;  sandalwood,  grown  old 
With  odor ;  gems ;  and  pearls  of  Oman,  — 
Than  her  white  breasts  less  white  and  cold ;  - 
And  myrrh,  less  fragrant  than  this  woman. 
259 


26o  ORIENTAL  ROMANCE 

III 

From  Bassora  I  came.     We  saw 

Her  eagle  castle  on  a  claw 

Of  soaring  precipice,  o'erawe 

The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  spray. 

Like  some  great  opal,  far  away 

It  shone,  with  battlement  and  spire, 

Wherefrom,  with  wild  aroma,  day 

Blew  splintered  lights  of  sapphirine  fire. 

IV 

Lamenting  caverns  dark,  that  keep 

Sonorous  echoes  of  the  deep, 

Led  upward  to  her  castle  steep.  .  .  . 

Fair  as  the  moon,  whose  light  is  shed 

In  Ramadan,  was  she,  who  led 

My  love  unto  her  island  bowers, 

To  find  her  .  .  .  lying  young  and  dead 

Among  her  maidens  and  her  flowers. 


THE  MAMELUKE 

I 

SHE  was  a  queen.     'Midst  mutes  and  slaves, 
A  mameluke,  he  loved  her.  —  Waves 
Dashed  not  more  hopelessly  the  paves 

Of  her  high  marble  palace-stair 

Than  lashed  his  love  his  heart's  despair.  — 
As  souls  in  Hell  dream  Paradise, 

He  suffered  yet  forgot  it  there 
Beneath  Rommaneh's  houri  eyes. 


II 

With  passion  eating  at  his  heart 

He  served  her  beauty,  but  dared  dart 

No  amorous  glance,  nor  word  impart.  — 

Tain  leather's  perfumed  tan 

Beneath  her,  on  a  low  divan 
She  lay  'mid  cushions  stuffed  with  down : 

A  slave-girl  with  an  ostrich  fan 
Sat  by  her  in  a  golden  gown. 


261 


262  THE   MAMELUKE 

III 

She  bade  him  sing.     Fair  lutanist, 

She  loved  his  voice.     With  one  white  wrist, 

Hooped  with  a  blaze  of  amethyst, 
She  raised  her  ruby-crusted  lute : 
Gold-welted  stuff,  like  some  rich  fruit, 

Her  raiment,  diamond-showered,  rolled 
Folds  pigeon-purple,  whence  one  foot 

Drooped  in  an  anklet-twist  of  gold. 

IV 

He  stood  and  sang  with  all  the  fire 
That  boiled  within  his  blood's  desire, 
That  made  him  all  her  slave  yet  higher : 
And  at  the  end  his  passion  durst 
Quench  with  one  burning  kiss  its  thirst.  — 
O  eunuchs,  did  her  face  show  scorn 

When  through  his  heart  your  daggers  burst? 
And  dare  ye  say  he  died  forlorn  ? 


THE  SLAVE 

HE  waited  till  within  her  tower 
Her  taper  signalled  him  the  hour. 

He  was  a  prince  both  fair  and  brave.  — 
What  hope  that  he  would  love  her  slave  I 

He  of  the  Persian  dynasty ; 
And  she  a  Queen  of  Araby  !  — 

No  Peri  singing  to  a  star 
Upon  the  sea  were  lovelier.  .  .  . 

I  helped  her  drop  the  silken  rope. 
He  clomb,  aflame  with  love  and  hope. 

I  drew  the  dagger  from  my  gown 
And  cut  the  ladder,  leaning  down. 

Oh,  wild  his  face,  and  wild  the  fall : 
Her  cry  was  wilder  than  them  all. 

I  heard  her  cry ;  I  heard  him  moan ; 
And  stood  as  merciless  as  stone. 

263 


264  THE   SLAVE 

The  eunuchs  came :  fierce  scimitars 
Stirred  in  the  torch-lit  corridors. 

She  spoke  like  one  who  speaks  in  sleep, 
And  bade  me  strike  or  she  would  leap. 

I  bade  her  leap :  the  time  was  short : 
And  kept  the  dagger  for  my  heart. 

She  leapt.  ...     I  put  their  blades  aside, 
And  smiling  in  their  faces  —  died. 


THE  PORTRAIT 

IN  some  quaint  Nurnberg  maler-atelier 
Uprummaged.     When  and  where  was  never  clear 
Nor  yet  how  he  obtained  it.     When,  by  whom 
'Twas  painted  —  who  shall  say  ?  itself  a  gloom 
Resisting  inquisition.     I  opine 
It  is  a  Diirer.     Mark  that  touch,  this  line ; 
Are  they  deniable  ?  —  Distinguished  grace 
Of  the  pure  oval  of  the  noble  face 
Tarnished  in  color  badly.     Half  in  light 
Extend  it  so.     Incline.     The  exquisite 
Expression  leaps  abruptly :  piercing  scorn ; 
Imperial  beauty ;  each,  an  icy  thorn 
Of  light,  disdainful  eyes  and  .  .  .  well !  no  use  ! 
Effaced  and  but  beheld  !  a  sad  abuse 
Of  patience.  —  Often,  vaguely  visible, 
The  portrait  fills  each  feature,  making  swell 
The  heart  with  hope :  avoiding  face  and  hair 
Start  out  in  living  hues ;  astonished,  "There  !  — 
The  picture  lives  ! "  your  soul  exults,  when,  lo  ! 
You  hold  a  blur ;  an  undetermined  glow 
Dislimns  a  daub.  —  "Restore  ?"  —  Ah,  I  have  tried 
Our  best  restorers,  and  it  has  defied. 
265 


266  THE   PORTRAIT 

Storied,  mysterious,  say,  perhaps  a  ghost 
Lives  in  the  canvas ;  hers,  some  artist  lost ; 
A  duchess',  haply.     Her  he  worshiped ;  dared 
Not  tell  he  worshiped.     From  his  window  stared 
Of  Nuremberg  one  sunny  morn  when  she 
Passed  paged  to  court.     Her  cold  nobility 
Loved,  lived  for  like  a  purpose.     Seized  and  plied 
A  feverish  brush  —  her  face  !  —  Despaired  and  died. 

The  narrow  Judengasse :  gables  frown 

Around  a  humpbacked  usurer's,  where  brown, 

Neglected  in  a  corner,  long  it  lay, 

Heaped  in  a  pile  of  riff-raff,  such  as  —  say, 

Retables  done  in  tempora  and  old 

Panels  by  Wohlgemuth ;  stiff  paintings  cold 

Of  martyrs  and  apostles,  —  names  forgot,  — 

Holbeins  and  Dtirers,  say ;  a  haloed  lot 

Of  praying  saints,  madonnas :  these,  perchance, 

'Mid  wine-stained  purples,  mothed ;  an  old  romance ; 

A  crucifix  and  rosary ;  inlaid 

Arms,  Saracen-elaborate ;  a  strayed 

Niello  of  Byzantium ;  rich  work, 

In  bronze,  of  Florence :  here  a  murderous  dirk, 

There  holy  patens. 

So.  —  My  ancestor, 

The  first  De  Herancour,  esteemed  by  far 
This  piece  most  precious,  most  desirable ; 


THE   PORTRAIT  267 

Purchased  and  brought  to  Paris.    It  looked  well 
In  the  dark  paneling  above  the  old 
Hearth  of  the  room.     The  head's  religious  gold, 
The  soft  severity  of  the  nun  face, 
Made  of  the  room  an  apostolic  place 
Revered  and  feared.  — 

Like  some  lived  scene  I  see 
That  Gothic  room :  its  Flemish  tapestry ; 
Embossed  within  the  marble  hearth  a  shield, 
Carved  'round  with  thistles  ;  in  its  argent  field 
Three  sable  mallets  —  arms  of  Herancour  — 
Topped  with  the  crest,  a  helm  and  hands  that  bore, 
Outstretched,  two  mallets.     On  a  lectern  laid,  — 
Between  two  casements,  lozenge-paned,  embayed,  — 
A  vellum  volume  of  black-lettered  text. 
Near  by  a  taper,  winking  as  if  vexed 
With  silken  gusts  a  nervous  curtain  sends, 
Behind  which,  haply,  daggered  Murder  bends. 

And  then  I  seem  to  see  again  the  hall ; 
The  stairway  leading  to  that  room.  —  Then  all 
The  terror  of  that  night  of  blood  and  crime 
Passes  before  me.  — 

It  is  Catherine's  time : 

The  house  De  Herancour's.     On  floors,  splashed  red, 
Torchlight  of  Medicean  wrath  is  shed. 
Down  carven  corridors  and  rooms,  —  where  couch 


268  THE   PORTRAIT 

And  chairs  lie  shattered  and  black  shadows  crouch 
Torch-pierced  with  fear,  —  a  sound  of  swords  draws 

near  — 
The  stir  of  searching  steel. 

What  find  they  here, 

Torch-bearer,  swordsman,  and  fierce  halberdier, 
On  St.  Bartholomew's  ?  —  A  Huguenot ! 
Dead  in  his  chair  !     Eyes,  violently  shot 
With  horror,  glaring  at  the  portrait  there : 
Coiling  his  neck  a  blood  line,  like  a  hair 
Of  finest  fire.     The  portrait,  like  a  fiend,  — 
Looking  exalted  visitation,  —  leaned 
From  its  black  panel ;  in  its  eyes  a  hate 
Satanic ;  hair  —  a  glowing  auburn ;  late 
A  dull,  enduring  golden. 

"Just  one  thread 

Of  the  fierce  hair  around  his  throat,"  they  said, 
"Twisting  a  burning  ray;  he  —  staring  dead." 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT 

I  HAD  not  found  the  road  too  short, 

As  once  I  had  in  days  of  youth, 

In  that  old  forest  of  long  ruth, 

Where  my  young  knighthood  broke  its  heart, 

Ere  love  and  it  had  come  to  part, 

And  lies  made  mockery  of  truth. 

I  had  not  found  the  road  too  short. 


A  blind  man,  by  the  nightmare  way, 
Had  set  me  right  when  I  was  wrong.  — 
I  had  been  blind  my  whole  life  long  — 
What  wonder  then  that  on  this  day 
The  blind  should  show  me  how  astray 
My  strength  had  gone,  my  heart  once  strong. 
A  blind  man  pointed  me  the  way. 

The  road  had  been  a  heartbreak  one, 
Of  roots  and  rocks  and  tortured  trees, 
And  pools,  above  my  horse's  knees, 
And  wandering  paths,  where  spiders  spun 
'Twixt  boughs  that  never  saw  the  sun, 
269 


270  THE   BLACK   KNIGHT 

And  silence  of  lost  centuries. 

The  road  had  been  a  heartbreak  one. 


It  seemed  long  years  since  that  black  hour 

When  she  had  fled,  and  I  took  horse 

To  follow,  and  without  remorse 

To  slay  her  and  her  paramour 

In  that  old  keep,  that  ruined  tower, 

From  whence  was  borne  her  father's  corse. 

It  seemed  long  years  since  that  black  hour. 

And  now  my  horse  was  starved  and  spent, 
My  gallant  destrier,  old  and  spare ; 
The  vile  road's  mire  in  mane  and  hair, 
I  felt  him  totter  as  he  went :  — 
Such  hungry  woods  were  never  meant 
For  pasture  :  hate  had  reaped  them  bare. 
Aye,  my  poor  beast  was  old  and  spent. 

I  too  had  naught  to  stay  me  with ; 

And  like  my  horse  was  starved  and  lean ; 

My  armor  gone ;  my  raiment  mean ; 

Bare-haired  I  rode ;  uneasy  sith 

The  way  I'd  lost,  and  some  dark  myth 

Far  in  the  woods  had  laughed  obscene. 

I  had  had  naught  to  stay  me  with. 


THE   BLACK   KNIGHT  271 

Then  I  dismounted.     Better  so. 

And  found  that  blind  man  at  my  rein. 

And  there  the  path  stretched  straight  and  plain. 

I  saw  at  once  the  way  to  go. 

The  forest  road  I  used  to  know 

In  days  when  life  had  less  of  pain. 

Then  I  dismounted.     Better  so. 

I  had  but  little  time  to  spare, 
Since  evening  now  was  drawing  near ; 
And  then  I  thought  I  saw  a  sneer 
Enter  into  that  blind  man's  stare : 
And  suddenly  a  thought  leapt  bare,  — 
What  if  the  Fiend  had  set  him  here  !  — 
I  still  might  smite  him  or  might  spare. 

I  braced  my  sword :  then  turned  to  look : 
For  I  had  heard  an  evil  laugh : 
The  blind  man,  leaning  on  his  staff, 
Still  stood  there  where  my  leave  I  took : 
What !  did  he  mock  me  ?     Would  I  brook 
A  blind  fool's  scorn  ?  —  My  sword  was  half 
Out  of  its  sheath.     I  turned  to  look : 

And  he  was  gone.  And  to  my  side 
My  horse  came  nickering  as  afraid. 
Did  he  too  fear  to  be  betrayed  ?  — 
What  use  for  him  ?  I  might  not  ride. 


272  THE   BLACK   KNIGHT 

So  to  a  great  bough  there  I  tied, 
And  left  him  in  the  forest  glade : 
My  spear  and  shield  I  left  beside. 

My  sword  was  all  I  needed  there. 
It  would  suffice  to  right  my  wrongs ; 
To  cut  the  knot  of  all  those  thongs 
With  which  she'd  bound  me  to  despair, 
That  woman  with  her  midnight  hair, 
Her  Circe  snares  and  Siren  songs. 
My  sword  was  all  I  needed  there. 

And  then  that  laugh  again  I  heard, 
Evil  as  Hell  and  darkness  are. 
It  shook  my  heart  behind  its  bar 
Of  purpose,  like  some  ghastly  word. 
But  then  it  may  have  been  a  bird, 
An  owlet  in  the  forest  far, 
A  raven,  croaking,  that  I  heard. 

I  loosed  my  sword  within  its  sheath ; 
My  sword,  disuse  and  dews  of  night 
Had  fouled  with  rust  and  iron-blight. 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  forest  breathe 
A  menace  at  me  through  its  teeth 
Of  thorns  'mid  which  the  way  lay  white. 
I  loosed  my  sword  within  its  sheath. 


THE   BLACK  KNIGHT  273 

I  had  not  noticed  until  now 
The  sun  was  gone,  and  gray  the  moon 
Hung  staring ;  pale  as  marble  hewn ;  — 
Like  some  old  malice,  bleak  of  brow, 
It  glared  at  me  through  leaf  and  bough, 
With  which  the  tattered  way  was  strewn. 
I  had  not  noticed  until  now. 

And  then,  all  unexpected,  vast 

Above  the  tops  of  ragged  pines 

I  saw  a  ruin,  dark  with  vines, 

Against  the  blood-red  sunset  massed : 

My  perilous  tower  of  the  past, 

Round  which  the  woods  thrust  giant  spines. 

I  never  knew  it  was  so  vast. 

Long  while  I  stood  considering.  — 
This  was  the  place  and  this  the  night. 
The  blind  man  then  had  set  me  right. 
Here  she  had  come  for  sheltering. 
That  ruin  held  her :  that  dark  wing 
Which  flashed  a  momentary  light. 
Some  time  I  stood  considering. 

Deep  darkness  fell.     The  somber  glare 

Of  sunset,  that  made  cavernous  eyes 

Of  those  gaunt  casements  'gainst  the  skies, 


274  THE   BLACK   KNIGHT 

Had  burnt  to  ashes  everywhere. 

Before  my  feet  there  rose  a  stair 

Of  oozy  stone,  of  giant  size, 

On  which  the  gray  moon  flung  its  glare. 

Then  I  went  forward,  sword  in  hand, 
Until  the  slimy  causeway  loomed, 
And  huge  beyond  it  yawned  and  gloomed 
The  gateway  where  one  seemed  to  stand, 
In  armor,  like  a  burning  brand, 
Sword-drawn ;  his  visor  barred  and  plumed. 
And  I  went  toward  him,  sword  in  hand. 

He  should  not  stay  revenge  from  me. 

Whatever  lord  or  knight  he  were, 

He  should  not  keep  me  long  from  her, 

That  woman  dyed  in  infamy. 

No  matter.     God  or  devil  he, 

His  sword  should  prove  no  barrier.  — 

Fool !  who  would  keep  revenge  from  me  ! 

And  then  I  heard,  harsh  over  all, 
That  demon  laughter,  filled  with  scorn : 
It  woke  the  echoes,  wild,  forlorn, 
Dark  in  the  ivy  of  that  wall, 
As  when,  within  a  mighty  hall, 
One  blows  a  giant  battle-horn. 
Loud,  loud  that  laugh  rang  over  all. 


THE   BLACK  KNIGHT  275 

And  then  I  struck  him  where  he  towered : 
I  struck  him,  struck  with  all  my  hate : 
Black-plumed  he  loomed  before  the  gate : 
I  struck,  and  found  his  sword  that  showered 
Fierce  flame  on  mine  while  black  he  glowered 
Behind  his  visor's  wolfish  grate. 
I  struck ;  and  taller  still  he  towered. 

A  year  meseemed  we  battled  there : 

A  year ;  ten  years ;  a  century : 

My  blade  was  snapped ;  his  lay  in  three : 

His  mail  was  hewn ;  and  everywhere 

Was  blood ;  it  streaked  my  face  and  hair ; 

And  still  he  towered  over  me. 

A  year  meseemed  we  battled  there. 

"  Unmask  !  "  I  cried.     "  Yea,  doff  thy  casque  ! 

Put  up  thy  visor  !  fight  me  fair  ! 

I  have  no  mail ;  my  head  is  bare  ! 

Take  off  thy  helm,  is  all  I  ask  ! 

Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face  ?  —  Unmask  !  "  — 

My  eyes  were  blind  with  blood  and  hair, 

And  still  I  cried,  "  Take  off  thy  casque  !  " 

And  then  once  more  that  laugh  rang  out 
Like  madness  in  the  caves  of  Hell : 
It  hooted  like  some  monster  well, 
The  haunt  of  owls,  or  some  mad  rout 


276  THE   BLACK  KNIGHT 

Of  witches.     And  with  battle  shout 
Once  more  upon  that  knight  I  fell, 
While  wild  again  that  laugh  rang  out. 

Like  Death's  own  eyes  his  glared  in  mine, 
As  with  the  fragment  of  my  blade 
I  smote  him  helmwise ;  huge  he  swayed, 
Then  crashed,  like  some  cadaverous  pine, 
Uncasqued,  his  face  in  full  moonshine : 
And  I  —  I  saw ;  and  shrank  afraid. 
For,  lo  !  behold  !  the  face  was  mine. 

What  devil's  work  was  here  !  —  What  jest 
For  fiends  to  laugh  at,  demons  hiss  !  — 
To  slay  myself  ?  and  so  to  miss 
My  hate's  reward  ?  —  revenge  confessed  !  — 
Was  this  knight  I  ?  —  My  brain  I  pressed.  — 
Then  who  was  he  who  gazed  on  this  ?  — 
What  devil's  work  was  here  !  —  What  jest ! 

It  was  myself  on  whom  I  gazed  — 
My  darker  self !  —  With  fear  I  rose.  - 
I  was  right  weak  from  those  great  blows.  — 
I  stood  bewildered,  stunned  and  dazed, 
And  looked  around  with  eyes  amazed.  — 
I  could  not  slay  her  now,  God  knows  !  — 
Around  me  there  a  while  I  gazed. 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT  277 

Then  turned  and  fled  into  the  night, 
While  overhead  once  more  I  heard 
That  laughter,  like  some  demon  bird 
Wailing  in  darkness.  —  Then  a  light 
Made  clear  a  woman  by  that  knight. 
I  saw  'twas  she,  but  said  no  word, 
And  silent  fled  into  the  night. 


IN  ARCADY 

I  REMEMBER,  when  a  child, 
How  within  the  April  wild 
Once  I  walked  with  Mystery 
In  the  groves  of  Arcady.  .  .  . 
Through  the  boughs,  before,  behind, 
Swept  the  mantle  of  the  wind, 
Thunderous  and  unconfmed. 

Overhead  the  curving  moon 
Pierced  the  twilight :  a  cocoon, 
Golden,  big  with  unborn  wings  — 
Beauty,  shaping  spiritual  things, 
Vague,  impatient  of  the  night, 
Eager  for  its  heavenward  flight 
Out  of  darkness  into  light. 

Here  and  there  the  oaks  assumed 
Satyr  aspects ;  shadows  gloomed, 
Hiding,  of  a  dryad  look ; 
And  the  naiad-frantic  brook, 
Crying,  fled  the  solitude, 
Filled  with  terror  of  the  wood, 
Or  some  faun-thing  that  pursued. 
278 


IN  ARCADY  279 

In  the  dead  leaves  on  the  ground 
Crept  a  movement ;  rose  a  sound : 
Everywhere  the  silence  ticked 
As  with  hands  of  things  that  picked 
At  the  loam,  or  in  the  dew,  — 
Elvish  sounds  that  crept  or  flew,  — 
Beak-like,  pushing  surely  through. 

Down  the  forest,  overhead, 
Stammering  a  dead  leaf  fled, 
Filled  with  elemental  fear 
Of  some  dark  destruction  near  — 
One,  whose  glowworm  eyes  I  saw 
Hag  with  flame  the  crooked  haw, 
Which  the  moon  clutched  like  a  claw. 

Gradually  beneath  the  tree 
Grew  a  shape ;  a  nudity : 
Lithe  and  slender ;  silent  as 
Growth  of  tree  or  blade  of  grass ; 
Brown  and  silken  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  trillium  in  the  gloom, 
Visible  as  strange  perfume. 

For  an  instant  there  it  stood, 
Smiling  on  me  in  the  wood : 
And  I  saw  its  hair  was  green 
As  the  leaf-sheath,  gold  of  sheen : 


28o  IN  ARCADY 

And  its  eyes  an  azure  wet, 
From  within  which  seemed  to  jet 
Sapphire  lights  and  violet. 

Swiftly  by  I  saw  it  glide ; 
And  the  dark  was  deified : 
Wild  before  it  everywhere 
Gleamed  the  greenness  of  its  hair ; 
And  around  it  danced  a  light, 
Soft,  the  sapphire  of  its  sight, 
Making  witchcraft  of  the  night. 

On  the  branch  above,  the  bird 
Trilled  to  it  a  dreamy  word : 
In  its  bud  the  wild  bee  droned 
Honeyed  greeting,  drowsy-toned : 
And  the  brook  forgot  the  gloom, 
Hushed  its  heart,  and,  wrapped  in  bloom, 
Breathed  a  welcome  of  perfume. 

To  its  beauty  bush  and  tree 

Stretched  sweet  arms  of  ecstasy ; 

And  the  soul  within  the  rock 

Lichen-treasures  did  unlock 

As  upon  it  fell  its  eye ; 

And  the  earth,  that  felt  it  nigh, 

Into  wildflowers  seemed  to  sigh.  .  .  . 


IN  ARCADY  281 

Was  it  dryad  ?  was  it  faun  ? 

Wandered  from  the  times  long  gone. 

Was  it  sylvan  ?  was  it  fay  ?  — 

Dim  survivor  of  the  day 

When  Religion  peopled  streams, 

Woods  and  rocks  with  shapes  like  gleams,  — 

That  invaded  then  my  dreams  ? 

Was  it  shadow  ?  was  it  shape  ? 

Or  but  fancy's  wild  escape  ?  — 

Of  my  own  child's  world  the  charm 

That  assumed  material  form  ?  — 

Of  my  soul  the  mystery, 

That  the  spring  revealed  to  me, 

There  in  long-lost  Arcady  ? 


PROTOTYPES 

WHETHER  it  be  that  we  in  letters  trace 
The  pure  exactness  of  a  wood  bird's  strain, 
And  name  it  song ;  or  with  the  brush  attain 
The  high  perfection  of  a  wildflower's  face ; 
Or  mold  in  difficult  marble  all  the  grace 
We  know  as  man ;  or  from  the  wind  and  rain 
Catch  elemental  rapture  of  refrain 
And  mark  in  music  to  due  time  and  place : 
The  aim  of  Art  is  Nature ;  to  unfold 
Her  truth  and  beauty  to  the  souls  of  men 
In  close  suggestions ;  in  whose  forms  is  cast 
Nothing  so  new  but  'tis  long  eons  old ; 
Nothing  so  old  but  'tis  as  young  as  when 
The  mind  conceived  it  in  the  ages  past. 


282 


MARCH 

THIS  is  the  tomboy  month  of  all  the  year, 

March,  who  comes  shouting  o'er  the  winter  hills, 

Waking  the  world  with  laughter,  as  she  wills, 

Or  wild  halloos,  a  windflower  in  her  ear. 

She  stops  a  moment  by  the  half-thawed  mere 

And  whistles  to  the  wind,  and  straightway  shrills 

The  hyla's  song,  and  hoods  of  daffodils 

Crowd  golden  round  her,  leaning  their  heads  to  hear. 

Then  through  the  woods,  that  drip  with  all  their  eaves, 

Her  mad  hair  blown  about  her,  loud  she  goes 

Singing  and  calling  to  the  naked  trees ; 

And  straight  the  oilets  of  the  little  leaves 

Open  their  eyes  in  wonder,  rows  on  rows, 

And  the  first  bluebird  bugles  to  the  breeze. 


283 


DUSK 

CORN-COLORED  clouds  upon  a  sky  of  gold, 

And  'mid  their  sheaves,  —  where,  like  a  daisy-bloom 

Left  by  the  reapers  to  the  gathering  gloom, 

The  star  of  twilight  glows,  —  as  Ruth,  'tis  told, 

Dreamed  homesick  'mid  the  harvest  fields  of  old, 

The  Dusk  goes  gleaning  color  and  perfume 

From  Bible  slopes  of  heaven,  that  illume 

Her  pensive  beauty  deep  in  shadows  stoled. 

Hushed  is  the  forest ;  and  blue  vale  and  hill 

Are  still,  save  for  the  brooklet,  sleepily 

Stumbling  the  stone  with  one  foam-fluttering  foot : 

Save  for  the  note  of  one  far  whippoorwill, 

And  in  my  heart  her  name,  —  like  some  sweet  bee 

Within  a  rose,  —  blowing  a  faery  flute. 


284 


THE  WINDS 

THOSE  hewers  of  the  clouds,  the  Winds,  —  that  lair 

At  the  four  compass-points,  —  are  out  to-night ; 

I  hear  their  sandals  trample  on  the  height, 

I  hear  their  voices  trumpet  through  the  air : 

Builders  of  storm,  God's  workmen,  now  they  bear, 

Up  the  steep  stair  of  sky,  on  backs  of  might, 

Huge  tempest  bulks,  while,  —  sweat  that  blinds  their 

sight,  - 

The  rain  is  shaken  from  tumultuous  hair : 
Now,  sweepers  of  the  firmament,  they  broom, 
Like  gathered  dust,  the  rolling  mists  along 
Heaven's  floors  of  sapphire ;  all  the  beautiful  blue 
Of  skyey  corridor  and  celestial  room 
Preparing,  with  large  laughter  and  loud  song, 
For  the  white  moon  and  stars  to  wander  through. 


285 


LIGHT  AND  WIND 

WHERE,  through  the  myriad  leaves  of  forest  trees, 

The  daylight  falls,  beryl  and  chrysoprase, 

The  glamour  and  the  glimmer  of  its  rays 

Seem  visible  music,  tangible  melodies : 

Light  that  is  music ;  music  that  one  sees  — 

Wagnerian  music  —  where  forever  sways 

The  spirit  of  romance,  and  gods  and  fays 

Take  form,  clad  on  with  dreams  and  mysteries. 

And  now  the  wind's  transmuting  necromance 

Touches  the  light  and  makes  it  fall  and  rise, 

Vocal,  a  harp  of  multitudinous  waves 

That  speaks  as  ocean  speaks  —  an  utterance 

Of  far-off  whispers,  mermaid-murmuring  sighs  — 

Pelagian,  vast,  deep  down  in  coral  caves. 


286 


ENCHANTMENT 

THE  deep  seclusion  of  this  forest  path,  — 

O'er  which  the  green  boughs  weave  a  canopy ; 

Along  which  bluet  and  anemone 

Spread  dim  a  carpet ;  where  the  Twilight  hath 

Her  cool  abode ;  and,  sweet  as  aftermath, 

Wood-fragrance  roams,  —  has  so  enchanted  me, 

That  yonder  blossoming  bramble  seems  to  be 

A  Sylvan  resting,  rosy  from  her  bath : 

Has  so  enspelled  me  with  tradition's  dreams, 

That  every  foam-white  stream  that,  twinkling,  flows, 

And  every  bird  that  flutters  wings  of  tan, 

Or  warbles  hidden,  to  my  fancy  seems 

A  Naiad  dancing  to  a  Faun  who  blows 

Wild  woodland  music  on  the  pipes  of  Pan. 


287 


ABANDONED 

THE  hornets  build  in  plaster-dropping  rooms. 

And  on  its  mossy  porch  the  lizard  lies ; 

Around  its  chimneys  slow  the  swallow  flies, 

And  on  its  roof  the  locusts  snow  their  blooms. 

Like  some  sad  thought  that  broods  here,  old  perfumes 

Haunt  its  dim  stairs ;  the  cautious  zephyr  tries 

Each  gusty  door,  like  some  dead  hand,  then  sighs 

With  ghostly  lips  among  the  attic  glooms. 

And  now  a  heron,  now  a  kingfisher, 

Flits  in  the  willows  where  the  riffle  seems 

At  each  faint  fall  to  hesitate  to  leap, 

Fluttering  the  silence  with  a  little  stir. 

Here  Summer  seems  a  placid  face  asleep, 

And  the  near  world  a  figment  of  her  dreams. 


288 


AFTER  LONG  GRIEF 

THERE  is  a  place  hung  o'er  of  summer  boughs 
And  dreamy  skies  wherein  the  gray  hawk  sleeps ; 
Where  water  flows,  within  whose  lazy  deeps, 
Like  silvery  prisms  where  the  sunbeams  drowse, 
The  minnows  twinkle ;  where  the  bells  of  cows 
Tinkle  the  stillness ;  and  the  bobwhite  keeps 
Calling  from  meadows  where  the  reaper  reaps, 
And  children's  laughter  haunts  an  oldtime  house  : 
A  place  where  life  wears  ever  an  honest  smell 
Of  hay  and  honey,  sun  and  elder-bloom,  — 
Like  some  sweet,  simple  girl,  —  within  her  hair ; 
Where,  with  our  love  for  comrade,  we  may  dwell 
Far  from  the  city's  strife,  whose  cares  consume.  — 
Oh,  take  my  hand  and  let  me  lead  you  there. 


289 


MENDICANTS 

BLEAK,  in  dark  rags  of  clouds,  the  day  begins, 

That  passed  so  splendidly  but  yesterday, 

Wrapped  in  magnificence  of  gold  and  gray, 

And  poppy  and  rose.     Now,  burdened  as  with  sins, 

Their  wildness  clad  in  fogs,  like  coats  of  skins, 

Tattered  and  streaked  with  rain ;   gaunt,  clogged  with 

clay, 

The  mendicant  Hours  take  their  somber  way 
Westward  o'er  Earth,  to  which  no  sunray  wins. 
Their  splashing  sandals  ooze ;  their  foosteps  drip, 
Puddle  and  brim  with  moisture ;  their  sad  hair 
Is  tagged  with  haggard  drops,  that  with  their  eyes' 
Slow  streams  are  blent ;  each  sullen  fingertip 
Rivers ;  while  round  them,  in  the  grief-drenched  air 
Wearies  the  wind  of  their  perpetual  sighs. 


290 


THE  END   OF  SUMMER 

PODS  are  the  poppies,  and  slim  spires  of  pods 

The  hollyhocks ;  the  balsam's  pearly  bredes 

Of  rose-stained  snow  are  little  sacs  of  seeds 

Collapsing  at  a  touch :  the  lote,  that  sods 

The  pond  with  green,  has  changed  its  flowers  to  rods 

And  discs  of  vesicles ;  and  all  the  weeds, 

Around  the  sleepy  water  and  its  reeds, 

Are  one  white  smoke  of  seeded  silk  that  nods. 

Summer  is  dead,  ay  me  !  sweet  Summer's  dead  ! 

The  sunset  clouds  have  built  her  funeral  pyre, 

Through  which,  e'en  now,  runs  subterranean  fire  : 

While  from  the  east,  as  from  a  garden  bed, 

Mist-vined,  the  Dusk  lifts  her  broad  moon  —  like  some 

Great  golden  melon  —  saying,  "Fall  has  come." 


291 


NOVEMBER 


THE  shivering  wind  sits  in  the  oaks,  whose  limbs, 
Twisted  and  tortured,  nevermore  are  still ; 
Grief  and  decay  sit  with  it ;  they,  whose  chill 
Autumnal  touch  makes  hectic-red  the  rims 
Of  all  the  oak  leaves ;  desolating,  dims 
The  ageratum's  blue  that  banks  the  rill ; 
And  splits  the  milkweed's  pod  upon  the  hill, 
And  shakes  it  free  of  the  last  seed  that  swims. 
Down  goes  the  day  despondent  to  its  close : 
And  now  the  sunset's  hands  of  copper  build 
A  tower  of  brass,  behind  whose  burning  bars 
The  day,  in  fierce,  barbarian  repose, 
Like  some  imprisoned  Inca  sits,  hate-filled, 
Crowned  with  the  gold  corymbus  of  the  stars. 

II 

There  is  a  booming  in  the  forest  boughs ; 
Tremendous  feet  seem  trampling  through  the  trees 
The  storm  is  at  his  wildman  revelries, 
And  earth  and  heaven  echo  his  carouse. 
292 


NOVEMBER  293 

Night  reels  with  tumult ;  and,  from  out  her  house 

Of  cloud,  the  moon  looks,  —  like  a  face  one  sees 

In  nightmare,  —  hurrying,  with  pale  eyes  that  freeze 

Stooping  above  with  white,  malignant  brows. 

The  isolated  oak  upon  the  hill, 

That  seemed,  at  sunset,  in  terrific  lands 

A  Titan  head  black  in  a  sea  of  blood, 

Now  seems  a  monster  harp,  whose  wild  strings  thrill 

To  the  vast  fingering  of  innumerable  hands  — 

Spirits  of  tempest  and  of  solitude. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LOVE 

So  Love  is  dead,  the  Love  we  knew  of  old  ! 

And  in  the  sorrow  of  our  hearts'  hushed  halls 

A  lute  lies  broken  and  a  flower  falls ; 

Love's  house  stands  empty  and  his  hearth  lies  cold. 

Lone  in  dim  places,  where  sweet  vows  were  told, 

In  walks  grown  desolate,  by  ruined  walls 

Beauty  decays ;  and  on  their  pedestals 

Dreams  crumble  and  th'  immortal  gods  are  mold. 

Music  is  slain  or  sleeps ;  one  voice  alone, 

One  voice  awakes,  and  like  a  wandering  ghost 

Haunts  all  the  echoing  chambers  of  the  Past  — 

The  voice  of  Memory,  that  stills  to  stone 

The  soul  that  hears ;  the  mind,  that,  utterly  lost, 

Before  its  beautiful  presence  stands  aghast. 


294 


UNANSWERED 

How  long  ago  it  is  since  we  went  Maying  ! 
Since  she  and  I  went  Maying  long  ago  !  — 
The  years  have  left  my  forehead  lined,  I  know, 
Have  thinned  my  hair  around  the  temples  graying. 
Ah,  time  will  change  us :  yea,  I  hear  it  saying  — 
"  She  too  grows  old :  the  face  of  rose  and  snow 
Has  lost  its  freshness :  in  the  hair's  brown  glow 
Some  strands  of  silver  sadly,  too,  are  straying. 
The  form  you  knew,  whose  beauty  so  enspelled, 
Has  lost  the  litheness  of  its  loveliness : 
And  all  the  gladness  that  her  blue  eyes  held 
Tears  and  the  world  have  hardened  with  distress."  — 
"  True  !  true  ! "  I  answer,  "  O  ye  years  that  part ! 
These   things   are   changed  —  but   is   her    heart,   her 
heart?" 


295 


THE  SWASHBUCKLER 

SQUAT-NOSED  and  broad,  of  big  and  pompous  port ; 

A  tavern  visage,  apoplexy  haunts, 

All  pimple-puffed :  the  Falstaff-like  resort 

Of  fat  debauchery,  whose  veined  cheek  flaunts 

A  flabby  purple :  rusty-spurred  he  stands 

In  rakehell  boots  and  belt,  and  hanger  that 

Claps  when,  with  greasy  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 

He  swaggers  past  in  cloak  and  slouch-plumed  hat. 

Aggression  marches  armies  in  his  words ; 

And  in  his  oaths  great  deeds  ride  cap-a-pie ; 

His  looks,  his  gestures  breathe  the  breath  of  swords ; 

And  in  his  carriage  camp  all  wars  to  be :  — 

With  him,  of  battles  there  shall  be  no  lack 

While  buxom  wenches  are  and  stoops  of  sack. 


296 


OLD  SIR  JOHN 

BALD,  with  old  eyes  a  blood-shot  blue,  he  comes 
Into  the  Boar's  Head  Inn :  the  hot  sweat  streaks 
His  fulvous  face,  and  all  his  raiment  reeks 
Of  all  the  stews  and  all  the  Eastcheap  slums. 
Upon  the  battered  board  again  he  drums 
And  croaks  for  sack :  then  sits,  his  harsh-haired  cheeks 
Sunk  in  his  hands,  rough  with  the  grime  of  weeks, 
While  round  the  tap  one  great  bluebottle  hums. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  companions  —  they 
Who  made  his  rogue's  world  merry:  of  them  all 
Not  one  is  left.     Old,  toothless  now,  and  gray, 
Alone  he  waits :  the  swagger  of  that  day 
Gone  from  his  bulk  —  departed  even  as  Doll, 
And  he,  his  Hal,  who  broke  his  heart,  they  say. 


297 


UNCALLED 

As  one,  who,  journeying  westward  with  the  sun, 
Beholds  at  length  from  the  up- towering  hills, 
Far-off,  a  land  unspeakable  beauty  fills, 
Circean  peaks  and  vales  of  Avalon : 
And,  sinking  weary,  watches,  one  by  one, 
The  big  seas  beat  between ;  and  knows  it  skills 
No  more  to  try ;  that  now,  as  Heaven  wills, 
This  is  the  helpless  end,  that  all  is  done : 
So  'tis  with  him,  whom  long  a  vision  led 
In  quest  of  Beauty ;  and  who  finds  at  last 
She  lies  beyond  his  effort ;  all  the  waves 
Of  all  the  world  between  them :  while  the  dead, 
The  myriad  dead,  who  people  all  the  past 
With  failure,  hail  him  from  forgotten  graves. 


298 


T 


HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
few  of  the  Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author 
or  on  kindred  subjects 


The  Book  of  Love 

With  an  Introduction  by  MADISON   CAWEIN.     Drawings 
byWLADYSLAW  T.   BENDA. 

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"  Some  one  has  'said  that  there  are  three  loves  which  make 
and  keep  the  world:  the  love  which  makes  man  and  woman 
one;  the  love  that  binds  families  into  nations;  the  love  that 
draws  the  world  to  God;  that  each  is  justified  in  its  own  immor 
tality;  and  that  all  of  life  worth  living  must  proceed  from  one 
of  these.  In  this  latest  addition  to  The  Friendly  Library  have 
been  gathered  together  many  of  the  most  beautiful  and  inter 
esting  bits  of  literature  touching  the  first  of  these.  The  Selec 
tions  are  grouped  under  the  headings  as,  First  Love,  Famous 
Lovers,  Love's  Comedies,  Love's  Adventures,  Love's  Tragedies, 
Love  Letters,  Love  Songs,  Love's  Enemies,  Love's  Philosophy, 
Love  in  Many  Modes,  the  Light  that  Failed,  and  Love  Trium 
phant.  Each  section  is  preceded  by  a  full-page  drawing  and 
table  of  contents  with  decorated  border.  The  attractive  appear 
ance  of  the  book  is  that  of  the  earlier  volumes  of  The  Friendly 
Library."  —  Duluth  News. 

"All  engaged  persons,  and  indeed  all  persons  contemplating 
matrimony  as  an  immediate  or  an  ultimate  bourn,  should  pos 
sess  this  vade  mecum."  —  Vogue. 

"An  admirable  collection." — 'New  York  American. 


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A  Book  of  Old  English  Ballads 

Edited  with  an  extended  Introduction  by  HAMILTON  W. 
MABIE.  Decorative  drawings  by  George  Wharton  Edwards. 

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Unless  one  were  brought  up  on  old  ballad  verse  he  may  never 
know  the  full  thrill  of  starting  out  with  the  ill-fated  Earl  of 
Northumberland 

"  His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  summers  days  to  take," 

of  hunting  with  Robin  Hood  in  Sherwood  Forest,  or  of  listen 
ing  awed  to  the  wave  lapping  fifty  fathoms  above  where  "  lies 
gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet";  but 
even  so  this  is  a  book  one  thoroughly  enjoys  owning.  Scarcely 
a  ballad  in  it  but  is  a  favorite  in  the  first  rank  of  its  type,  keenly 
dramatic  in  its  quaint  simplicity. 

A  Book  of  Old  English  Love  Songs 

Edited  with  an  extended  Introduction  by  HAMILTON  W. 
MABIE.  Decorative  drawings  by  George  Wharton  Edwards. 

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"  The  best  songs  of  Elizabethan  and  Stuart  times,  which  is  to  say 
songs  which  express  the  lyric  power  of  the  English  language  at 
its  highest  point."  —  The  New  York  Sun. 

"  Old  friends  are  best  in  literature  as  in  life,  and  the  perennial 
charm  of  the  immortal  songs  that  have  cheered  mortal  men  for 
generations  is  as  fresh  and  gracious  still  as  when  they  first 
issued  forth  from  the  poet's  heart."  —  Philadelphia  Evening 
Telegraph. 

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The  Golden  Treasury 


Selected  from  the  best  Songs  and  Lyrical  Poems  in  the  English 
Language  and  arranged  with  Notes  by  FRANCIS  T.  PAL- 
GRAVE,  late  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford. 

A  New  Edition  revised  and  enlarged 

Two  volumes  in  one,  in  blue  and  gold,  $1.50 

The  first  portion  of  this  volume  is  the  exceptional  collection 
which  has  been  the  standard  basis  for  study  of  the  lyrical 
literature  of  England  from  the  earliest  times  to  Wordsworth's 
day.  It  is  divided  into  four  books,  and  to  each  it  may  be  said 
that  one  of  these  four  poets  gives  it  a  distinctive  character: 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Gray,  and  Wordsworth.  The  Second 
Series  is  an  attempt  to  make  a  similar  representation  of  the 
harvest  of  lyrics  more  abundant  than  even  those  of  the  famed 
Elizabethan  period.  It  is  an  unrivalled  choice  of  the  lyrical 
expressions  of  this  subjective  age. 

LyriC   Love      An  Anthology 

Edited  by  WILLIAM  WATSON. 

The  author's  comprehensive  aim  has  been  to  bring  together 

the  best  English  poetry  having  love  as  its  personal  inspiration 

or  its  objective  theme.    An  especial  interest  is  lent  the  volume 

by  its  primary  principle  of  selection,  namely,  that  the  poem 

shall  have  a  convincing  "personal  reality." 

The  volume  is  bound  in  the  attractive  blue  and  gold  of  the 

Golden  Treasury  Series. 

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By  ALFRED   NOYES 

The  Flower  of  Old  Japan,  and 
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"  Mr.  Noyes  is  first  of  all  a  singer,  then  something  of  a  seer 
with  great  love  and  high  hopes,  and  aims  to  balance  this  rare 
combination.  .  .  .  Readers  of  gentle  fibre  will  find  this  book 
not  only  full  of  rich  imagery  and  refreshing  interest,  but  also  a 
wonderful  passport  to  the  dear  child  land  Stevenson  made  so 
real  and  telling,  and  which  most  of  us,  having  left  it  far  behind, 
would  so  gladly  regain." —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  Golden  Hynde  and  Other  Poems 

"  It  has  seemed  to  us  from  the  first  that  Noyes  has  been  one 
of  the  most  hope-inspiring  figures  in  our  latter-day  poetry. 
He,  almost  alone  of  the  younger  men,  seems  to  have  the  true 
singing  voice,  the  gift  of' uttering  in  authentic  lyric  cry  some 
fresh,  unspoiled  emotion."  —  New  York  Post. 

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things  are  done,  and  all  done  so  well."  —  RICHARD  LE 
GALLIENNE,  in  the  North  American  Review. 

By  W.  B.  YEATS 

Poems  and  Plays 

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the  second  includes  all  of  his  five  dramas  in  verse :  The 
Countess  Cathleen,  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  The  King's 
Threshold,  On  Baile's  Strand,  and  The  Shadowy  Waters. 
"Mr.  Yeats  is  probably  the  most  important  as  well  as  the 
most  widely  known  of  the  men  concerned  directly  in  the  so- 
called  Celtic  renaissance.  More  than  this,  he  stands  among 
the  few  men  to  be  reckoned  with  in  modern  poetry."  —  New 
York  Herald. 

By  Mrs.  ELLA  HIGGINSON 

When  the  Birds  Go  North  Again 

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the  scenes  and  under  the  light  of  a  sunset  land,  will  constitute 
an  attractive  charm  to  many  readers." —  The  Boston  Transcript. 

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The  Chicago  Tribune  says  that  Mrs.  Higginson  in  her  verse,  as  in 
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By  CONINGSBY  WILLIAM  DAWSON 

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Rome,  suggested  the  title.  The  Picture  has  long  been  re 
garded  as  symbolical,  likewise  is  the  Poem.  But  the  sym 
bolism  of  the  latter  is  distinct  from  any  hitherto  ascribed  to 
the  Picture ;  contrasting  as  it  does  Worldly  Ambition  with 
Spiritual  Aspiration,  the  Political  career  in  its  lowest  aspect 
with  the  Literary  career  in  its  highest. 

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careful,  clean,  poetical  workmanship,  are  the  characteristics 
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Supreme  Court  of  the  District  of  Columbia.  The  title, 
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Greece  is  in  great  measure  the  inspiration  of  the  volume. 
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A  History  of  English  Poetry 

By  W.  J.  COURTHOPE,  C.B.,  D.Litt.,  LL.D.,  Late   Pro 
fessor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford. 

Cloth,  8vo,  $3.25  net  per  volume 

VOLUME  I.  The  Middle  Ages  —  Influence  of  the  Roman 
Empire  —  The  Encyclopaedic  Education  of  the  Church  — 
The  Federal  System. 

VOLUME  II.  The  Renaissance  and  the  Reformation  — 
Influence  of  the  Court  and  the  Universities. 

VOLUME  III.  English  Poetry  in  the  Seventeenth  Century 
—  Decadent  Influence  of  the  Feudal  Monarchy  —  Growth 
of  the  National  Genius. 

VOLUME  IV.  Development  and  Decline  of  the  Poetic 
Drama — Influence  of  the  Court  and  the  People. 

VOLUME  V.  The  Constitutional  Compromise  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century  —  Effects  of  the  Classical  Renais 
sance —  Its  Zenith  and  Decline — The  Early  Romantic 
Renaissance. 


"  It  is  his  privilege  to  have  made  a  contribution  of  great 
value  and  signal  importance  to  the  history  of  English  litera 
ture."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


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English  Poetry 


Its  Principles  and  Progress,  with  Representative  Masterpieces 
and  Notes.  By  CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY,  Litt.D., 
LL.D.,  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Literature  in 
the  University  of  California,  and  CLEMENT  C.  YOUNG, 
of  the  Lowell  High  School,  San  Francisco,  California. 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.50  net 

A  manual  for  the  general  reader  who  takes  an  interest  in  the  mate 
rials  and  history  of  the  higher  English  poetry,  and  seeks  a  simple 
statement  of  its  principles  in  relation  to  life,  conduct,  and  art.  The 
introduction  on  "  The  Principles  of  Poetry "  aims  to  answer  the 
questions  that  inevitably  arise  when  poetry  is  the  subject  of  discus 
sion,  and  to  give  the  questioner  a  grasp  upon  the  essentials  necessary 
to  appreciation  and  to  the  formation  of  an  independent  judgment. 

"  The  Introduction  on  '  The  Principles  of  Poetry '  should  be  an 
inspiration  to  both  teacher  and  pupil,  and  a  very  definite  help  in 
appreciation  and  study,  especially  in  the  portion  that  deals  with  the 
'  Rhythm  of  Verse.'  The  remarks  on  the  different  centuries,  in  their 
literary  significance  and  development,  are  helpful,  and  the  notes  to 
each  poem,  lucid  and  sufficient."  —  HARRY  S.  Ross,  Worcester 
Academy,  Worcester,  Mass. 

For  more  advanced  students 
A  History  of  English  Prosody 

From  the  Twelfth  Century  to  the  Present  Day.  In  three 
volumes.  By  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  M.A.  (Oxon.), 
Hon.  LL.D.  (Aberdeen),  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Volume  I  — 
From  the  Origins  to  Spenser. 

xvii  +  428  pages,  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50  net 

"  What  strikes  one  is  the  sensibleness  of  the  book  as  a  whole.  Not 
merely  for  enthusiasts  on  metrics,  but  for  students  of  literature  in 
general,  it  is  a  good  augury  toward  the  probable  clearing  up  of  this 
entire  blurred  and  cloudy  subject  to  find  Omond's  mild  fairness  and 
Thomson's  telling  simplicity  followed  so  soon  by  this  all-pervading 
common  sense.  .  .  .  The  most  extraordinary  thing  about  this 
volume  is  that,  unintentionally  as  it  would  appear,  the  author  has 
produced  the  one  English  book  now  existing  which  is  likely  to  be  of 
real  use  to  those  who  wish  to  perfect  themselves  in  the  formal  side 
of  verse  composition." —  The  Evening  Post,  New  York. 


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The  Book  of  Christmas 

With  an   Introduction    by    HAMILTON    W.   MABIE  and 

Drawings  by  George  Wharton  Edwards 

12  full-page  drawings  and  12  half-tone   reproductions  of 
famous  paintings.      Cloth,  idmo,  decorated  cover,  $1.25  net 

"  '  The  Book  of  Christmas  '  is  one  of  the  happiest  anthologies 
we  have  met  in  a  long  time.  Such  a  book,  as  Mr.  Mabie  sees 
it  in  his  inspiring  introduction,  should  be  a  '  text-book  of  piety, 
friendship,  merriment,'  and  that  is  what  he  has  made  his  dainty 
little  volume,  giving  us  more  than  three  hundred  pages  of  prose 
and  verse  drawn  from  the  widest  sources,  from  old  writers  who 
are  classics,  and  from  others,  who,  if  r/ot  of  the  same  eminence, 
have  at  all  events  put  the  spirit  of  Christmas  into  their  work 
with  feeling  and  art.  ...  In  its  pretty  cover  of  green  and  gold, 
the  book  is  one  to  win  its  way  anywhere."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

The  Book  of  Easter 

Introduction  by  the  Right  Reverend  WILLIAM  CROSWELL 
DOANE.  With  decorative  drawings  by  George  Wharton 
Edwards  and  twelve  full-page  half-tones. 

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"  A  treasury  of  literary  gems  bound  in  green  and  gold,  decorated 
with  Easter  lilies.  A  daintier  Easter  gift  could  not  be  found." 

—  Christian  Observer. 

"  A  very  beautiful  volume  of  selections  from  all  sources  —  an 
cient  and  modern,  sacred  and  profane.  .  .  .  And  no  more 
beautiful  Easter  gift  would  it  be  possible  to  find." 

—  Western  Christian  Advocate. 

The  Book  of  Friendship 

With  an  Introduction  by  SAMUEL  McCHORD  CROTHERS 
and  drawings  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Benda. 

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"  Most  varied  in  its  contents  and  full  of  all  manner  of  quaint 
information."  —  New  York  Times. 


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Full  Fathom  Five 

A  Sea-Anthology  in  Prose  a.nd  Verse 
BY  HELEN  AND  LEWIS   MELVILLE 

Bits  about  the  Sea,  touching  many  phases  of  its  call  to  men,  the 
soft  silver  of  the  moon-path  on  its  shine,  the  note  of  its  deep 
rolling  diapason,  and  all  the  grandeur  of  its  numberless  currents. 

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London's  Lure 

An  Anthology  in  Prose  and  Verse 
BY  HELEN  AND  LEWIS  MELVILLE 

A  selection  of  what  poets  and  prose  writers  have  said  about  the 
great  metropolis  —  that  capital  of  all  Europe  which  has  for  most 
Americans  the  closest  attraction  and  the  most  lasting  charm. 

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The  Wayfarer  in  New  York 

Introduction  by  E.  C.  MARTIN 

This  book  describes  New  York  in  much  the  same  way  that 
London  was  discussed  in  "  London's  Lure,"  through  pictures 
of  different  phases  of  the  modern  city,  from  the  yeasty,  seething 
East  side,  west  to  where  old  Greenwich  grimly  holds  its  own ; 
from  the  "  granite  cliffs  "  of  lower  Broadway  to  where  by  night 
"  the  serpent  of  stars  "  winds  around  Morningside. 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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